


Finger painting

by Silence_Speaker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence_Speaker/pseuds/Silence_Speaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been turned into a child, Sherlock is not amused. Lestrade just finds it all hilarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock.
> 
> For the prompt: John is turned into a child (somehow) and Sherlock has to look after him.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.

Prologue:

John and Sherlock hurried round the corner chasing the last known link of Moriaty’s network.

Despite Sherlock’s attempts he hadn’t quite manage to destroy all of the higher levels of the vast criminal network during his three year absence or ‘death’.

He had tried and thought he had, Sebastian Moran had been the last link in Sherlock’s ledger but it appeared Moriaty had a few even more top secret threads of his web. It hadn’t been six months into Sherlock’s return when it had come to their attention that there was still more to be done.

Some of the lesser known, and not very high up on the ranks, criminals had attempted (and some successfully) to run a small portion of the network. That had been their downfall. None of them was half as tricky as Sherlock or Moriaty so it had quickly reached Mycroft’s attention.

And as John and Sherlock had infiltrated these new set ups and promptly disabled them a new part of the web, separate from the rest, had been uncovered.

Moriaty had a few labs (a bit like the set out at Baskerville) where anything and everything had gone on. It was the head scientist of the last lab they had found that they were chasing now. 

There were probably more but Sherlock and John hadn’t been able to locate any others. John was especially worried about this particular lab as there was evidence of children dotted around here and there (though they had yet to spot an actual child).

They dashed round the corner breath misting in front of them as they looked around for any evidence of the scientist...

There!

They sped after the fleeing woman.

Three minutes later and she was cornered and looking around desperately. John held up his hands showing he was unarmed (his gun was tucked into the back of his jeans but she didn’t need to know that). John stopped as he realised she was scanning the building tops not looking for an escape as he had assumed. John’s eyes widened as he realised what was about to happen.

John tackled Sherlock just as a shot whistled past missing Sherlock by a hairs breath.

“Accomplice!” John hissed unnecessarily.

John grabbed his gun as he mentally worked out the trajectory the bullet had come from.

He dragged Sherlock behind a narrow metal barrier as another bullet pinged past. John scanned the area once before nodding and stepping out from the barrier and aiming once and firing. A short sharp cry then nothing. No more shots came their way so they excited into plain sight to try to find the scientist.

Suddenly a hand reached out stabbing John in the arm with an unknown substance and pressing down on the plunger releasing the substance into John’s blood stream.

John collapsed with a gasp. Sherlock ripped out the syringe from John’s arm and grabbed onto the woman and swiftly breaking her arm and shooting her in the leg so she couldn’t get away before getting out his phone and calling Mycroft.

“John...John!” Sherlock said slapping John’s face trying to get him to answer...show some signs of life...anything!

Sherlock inspected the syringe; it was nothing he could identify by sight, smell or taste.

It looked like a lab syringe, so possibly something the scientist was working on...

Sherlock only realised he had been sitting there his flatmates head on his lap eyeing the syringe in disbelief for at least fifteen minutes when an ambulance and some officials came careening by stopping by them and rushing to their aid. Mycroft had been swift in his response then.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock looked over the notes in dawning horror.

Mycroft’s goons had got hold of the lab work swiftly and neatly removed anything unnecessary before isolating the various different things John could have been injected with. Using John’s blood and testing on it they had isolated the exact serum.

It was a serum that had been worked on for years and tested on people Moriaty didn’t mind disposing of.

It, to put it simply, made the person affected by it revert to a child mentally and physically. The person affected would then show signs of only remembering things they had experience before and at the age they had reverted to.

After this the notes were less specific and more general. The average aging for the people affected by the serum was a year for every two months.

Sherlock chucked the notes at the wall, running a hand through his hair in aggravation.

Not only was his flatmate and friend John Watson a child but he wouldn’t be aging into an adult anytime soon either. Apparently it was too much strain on the body if they were made to age any swifter.

Sherlock did the mental maths, age six years for every year that passed meant that John would reach his mid-thirties in five years time.

Sherlock sighed defeated. He had spent three years without his blogger he really didn’t want to spend any longer without him. Sherlock eyed the table speculatively. John would be eighteen in...approximately 28 months, 2 years and four months, if John was roughly a four year old at the moment.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to visit the room his flatmate, currently a child of four years old, resided yet. He resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Why? Why John?

 

Xxx

 

Sherlock hesitantly entered the room that John was in eyeing the small figure sitting huddled on the bed with evident trepidation.

The small figure with a mop of sandy hair looked up as he entered wide eyes tracking his approach. John slowly uncurled from his tense position and edged off the bed and over to Sherlock.

“Shlock!” John exclaimed a small smile on his lips. John visibly relaxed when he stood next to Sherlock dwarfed by Sherlock’s tall form. Sherlock stood there eyes wide with surprise. It was one thing to know your friend was a child it was quite another to see it. And John had recognised him! That was either a potentially good thing or a potentially awful thing. He wasn’t supposed to remember! But there had been a side note, apparently things that were important in the person’s life before they were reverted back to childhood could be remembered as three of the studies had shown, it was rare though.

Sherlock felt a brief flash of warmth that he was remembered before shaking his head, it was John, of course John would recognise him.

 

xxx

 

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he walked down the hall to the room he had been directed to. Honestly trust his brother and John to get into such trouble.

Mycroft entered the room and did a classic double take, terribly trite but true. There sitting on the bed with a child, a child, in his lap was Sherlock. Sherlock had declared he hated children more times than Mycroft cared to count, yet here he was listening to the child’s half indecipherable babble.

Mycroft adjusted the cuffs of his jacket thankful that Sherlock hadn’t witnessed his overly dramatic reaction; he didn’t need to give Sherlock more ammunition. He tapped his umbrella on the ground to inform them of his presence. Coughing was not something Mycroft would employ to declare his presence.

Sherlock looked up a little irately although the signs of slight panic was evident from the wide eyed stare.

“Mycoff!” John exclaimed looking happy to see him much to Sherlock’s annoyance and Mycroft’s confusion, perhaps he was just an excitable child? Dr Watson only tended to greet him with resignation normally. Although Mycroft had thought resignation was the good Doctors default emotion.

Mycroft watched as John stood up in Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock let him. But that wasn’t even the strangest sight. Sherlock was unobtrusively and unconsciously supporting the little body so he didn’t crash to the floor.

Mycroft took in the scene incredulously.

“There’s been a change of plans.” Mycroft said benignly when his wits caught up with him. “I’ll send the necessary equipment to 221B Baker Street.” Mycroft said sending a rarely worn smile in John’s direction and walking out of the room leaving his little brother almost gaping in his wake. It felt nice to shock him for a change.

“Send a detailed list of instructions about the proper care of children to Sherlock’s flat along with a list of nannies. Also some basic children’s equipment, I believe a soft toy is required and some food. Inform Mrs Hudson about the new developments would you?” Mycroft asked his assistant who nodded immediately complying while she juggled changing the wording of the tedious and irrelevant proposals the House of Lords was attempting to approve.


	2. Chapter 2-The Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock Series 1+2.
> 
> Warnings: um...

(October/November 2015, John is four.)

 

“Sherlock I called you an hour ago why didn’t you get here sooner...” Greg’s voice faltered as he took in the unusual (and somewhat alarming) sight in front of him. Sherlock Holmes was holding the hand of a young boy who was attempting in vain to dig his small heels into the ground. Nearly all his face was scrunched up in a pout.

From head to toe the boy radiated stubborn indignation. The boys blue eyes were flashing furiously eyes shining with the sheen of suppressed tears. Sherlock looked little better than the sandy haired boy, mouth and eyes curled in a frustrated frown, looking much like an adult version of the same expression the boy was wearing.

“Shlock where teddy?” The blue eyed boy demanded almost crouching so Sherlock couldn’t drag him any further. It was almost comical how much Sherlock had to bend down so as to retain his grip on the boys wrist.

“John, as I have explained numerous times already, your teddy is currently undergoing a sanitation project since you carelessly spilt sulphuric acid all over it.” Sherlock replied running a hand through his hair much like John Watson did when he was at the end of his tether but hadn’t reached the point of pinching the bridge of his nose yet.

“Want teddy!” The boy, John, spat in return obviously ignoring what Sherlock said in favour of getting his beloved toy back. The boys eyebrows meshed together chin wobbling as his battle against tears persisted with greater and greater strength. Sherlock noted his expression with a look of dawning panic and he quickly knelt on the freezing concrete steps placing the boy a few steps above so they could look at each other eye to eye.

“John teddy has gone on a holiday, to get better. He was feeling a little ill after his adventure with the spilt acid so needs the holiday to recover. You wouldn’t want teddy to get even sicker would you?” Sherlock explained softly, well softly for Sherlock.

John looked briefly conflicted. He really wanted teddy but he didn’t want teddy to be ill or to hurt him! After a short pause John shook his head, he didn’t want to make teddy feel worse.

“When teddy’s better you can have him back but you have to be a good boy for me in the mean time.” Sherlock wheedled calmly. John nodded slumping slightly in disappointment.

“’Kay. But after you done can we go see Mycoff?” John asked eyes wide a pleading expression crossing his face. Sherlock twitched smiling insincerely.

“We’ll see.” Sherlock bit out. John eyed him shrewdly.

“We can have dinner together?” John asked hopefully causing Sherlock to scowl in irritation. Sherlock nodded in obvious reluctance.

There was quite a crowd of Yard workers gathered by the steps as word had spread; Sherlock was not exactly an unknown person around Scotland Yard and was rather infamous. Most were standing in absolute shock that the normally abrasive, rude and arrogant detective was the same man consoling the blond haired boy over his teddy.

The boy scrubbed furiously at his eyes wiping away any sign of tears before yawning widely. John hiccupped as he removed his small hands from his reddened eyes.

Sherlock eyed the boy an odd unreadable expression crossing his face before he swiftly picked the boy up, tucking him into his coat and holding him carefully. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and he leaned against Sherlock’s chest closing his eyes contentedly looking relaxed.

Sherlock adjusted the boy gently before looking up scowling at the gobsmacked expressions, looking even more annoyed at those who looked like they thought the scene was cute.

“Lestrade, tell me about the case, I don’t think you called me just to stand there gawping. Honestly doesn’t the police have better things to be doing? Like their jobs?” Sherlock bit out previous softer expression a thing of the past.

At the slight verbal dress down many of the watchers hurriedly scarpered not exactly keen to be called out on not doing their work.

Greg stepped forward about to speak then paused eyeing the pair thoughtfully. It was an extremely chilly day, too cold to snow and Sherlock did look rather sallow.

“Come through to my office. The files are there. Tea?” Greg asked politely already heading towards his office, Sherlock knew where it was. Sherlock followed not verbally acknowledging his thanks or the relief at getting out of the cold.

Greg waved him into the chair opposite his desk and handed him a cup of hot tea. Sherlock carefully sat adjusting the boy to ensure he didn’t wake.

A ring tone cut through the air emanating from Sherlock’s coat. Before Sherlock could even reach for the phone a small voice piped up answering it competently. 

“’lo Mycoff.” The child stated obviously not as tired as he had appeared, or as asleep. “No we is at please station.” John replied to the question both Sherlock and Greg couldn’t hear. “No is not happy, teddy ‘way. You make him not sick?” John pleaded sounding hopeful. Sherlock snatched the phone away before ‘Mycoff’ could answer.

Sherlock ignored John’s yelp of surprise and subsequent scowl.

“What do you want Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped listening to the answer with visible impatience. “It was not my fault your agents managed to not only let one of Moriaty’s men through but also they managed to miss the agent firing a serum that made my flatmate John return to a four year old state is it?” Sherlock snapped irately hanging up and pocketing the phone.

Greg frowned, thoughts running over the impossible. Sherlock must have been joking; surely there was nothing, not even something the best scientists could create that could make someone younger, return to their early years, right? Greg shook his head; of course the boy Sherlock had brought in was not his friend Doctor John Watson; that would be absurd. No matter how much the boy resembled the Doctor.

Greg eyed the boy who had gotten off Sherlock’s lap hurriedly when Sherlock started to sound angry and had crept under Greg’s desk and was sitting there watching Sherlock carefully face slightly fearful.

Sherlock huffed in his seat before looking around for the boy and noticing him watching him warily from the relative safety of under the desk.

Sherlock sighed kneeling down in front of John. John didn’t react to Sherlock coming any closer but he was tense, ready to move quickly. 

“John?” Sherlock questioned hands fidgeting slightly not really sure if he should reach out or not, confused by the boys wariness. John tilted his head to one side as if examining Sherlock for any potential threat. Whatever he saw when he looked at Sherlock had him relaxing slightly and shuffling closer to the confused man.

“Not cross?” The boy questioned. Both Greg and Sherlock heard the unasked question lacing those two words. ‘You aren’t angry with me?’ that John actually meant. Sherlock shook his head offering a small smile, just a slight quirk of the lips.

“Never with you.” Sherlock answered with emphasis that John caught and his face brightened in a smile as he walked over to Sherlock and held out his arms. Sherlock shot a slightly panicked look at Greg as if asking what he should do. Greg stifled the urge to laugh as he mimed hugging the little boy.

Sherlock still looked slightly shocked as he held the boy close to his chest gently clasping the small body against his chest.

Greg stayed silent quelling his questions until the little boy was once again asleep, safely ensconced on Sherlock’s lap.

“Why do you have the boy? Is he a relation of John’s?” Greg asked haphazardly, the boy had the same blond hair and bright blue eyes Doctor John Watson had they also shared a similarity in facial structure although the boys had the roundness of youth. Also John Watson was probably the only person mad enough who would trust a kid with Sherlock. 

“One of Moriaty’s agents slipped through the cracks when I was attempting to destroy the web after my death. It seems there had been a lot of illegal and immoral experimentation going on under Jim’s watch. Unfortunately one scientist found some of Moriaty’s scrapped plans and decided to put it in motion. The scientist managed to get through my brothers security and shoot the experimental serum into John making him a much weaker target than his usual adult self.” Sherlock explained sounding uncharacteristically tired.

Greg sifted through the unexpected influx of information clutching onto the relevant words. His jaw dropped.

“You can’t mean...that boy isn’t...Is that John Watson?” Greg asked gesturing to the sleeping child with an incredulous look ready to be scoffed at. Greg faltered when instead Sherlock just nodded impatiently though for once not voicing his annoyance at another’s inability to process the obvious.

“Um, okay then. How long until he returns to normal?” Greg asked hoping John would return to normal and swallowing back any words like impossible, or April fools gone too far. Sherlock sighed looking forlorn and a little lost. It was odd and slightly unnerving to see such raw human emotion on Sherlock’s face. Greg didn’t doubt that Sherlock felt it just that he never really showed it visibly, or well not visibly enough for Greg to catch.

John though always knew what a single twitch of Sherlock’s little finger could mean and could interpret Sherlock so well that it often sounded like they were having two completely different conversations, they answered what the other meant not what they said. Greg swallowed, it would be...bad...if John was no longer around, a constant steady presence for Sherlock, a friend.

And Greg would miss him. John was a good friend, remarkably tolerant of the strangest things. Always up for a pint (if he wasn’t on a case with Sherlock or patching someone up), ready with a sarcastic quip and with a certain snarky mellow humour that meshed well with Greg’s own sense of humour.

Not to mention John was possibly the only person Greg knew (only person on the earth) who could put up with or even enjoy Sherlock’s company 24/7. Sherlock also seemed (rather uncharacteristically) to enjoy John’s presence.

Greg snapped back to attention as Sherlock answered his question.

“Preliminary investigations supported by the results and tests from the lab suggest that John will age more rapidly than normal until he reached his correct age. It is believed John will age six years for every one year that passes. Apparently any quicker and the body burns out unable to take the rapid growth. He should reach his mid-thirties in about five years...he should be the mental and physical equivalent of an adult in two and a half years.” Once again Sherlock actually deigned to explain with detail, something usually lacking from his explanations.

“Does he have his adult memories?” Greg asked hesitantly not quite sure he wanted to know. Sherlock frowned looking warily at John’s features, peaceful in sleep.

“I don’t...The studies say he shouldn’t and he hasn’t shown any signs of it yet. However he should get his memories back when his body reaches the same physical age as the time when he first made the memories...It doesn’t really make much sense.” Sherlock finished brow furrowed. Greg nodded, it did sound rather fantastical. He was relieved though that a young boy wouldn’t have to suffer a man’s nightmares.

Greg had witnessed a couple of nights of John’s nightmares after Sherlock had jumped off St. Barts, it wasn’t pretty the memories Greg had caught snippets of when he attempted to wake the poor man up but Greg had said nothing. Doctor Watson was a remarkably stubborn man and hated being looked after or seen as weak. Greg respected the man far too much to pity him or to press his nose where it wasn’t wanted. So he had simply dropped a mug or made enough noise to wake John up from the nightmares and memories.

Greg quietly outlined the case, showing Sherlock the snapshots and information receiving the usual scathing retorts about his and his staffs intellect although Greg couldn’t miss the lack of venom or the soft tone Sherlock uttered the insults so as to not wake up the sleeping boy clasped gently in his arms.

Nor did Greg miss the glances Sherlock sent John’s way, the softening of his features as he swept the boy’s hair off his face with a gentle hand or the weariness evident on Sherlock’s face as he stifled yawns.

Once Sherlock had finished Greg left the room to inform his division about the murderer leaving Sherlock seated exhausted in his seat. Greg took his time returning to his office gathering up some rather old and odd cold cases and photocopying the information.

Greg re-entered his office and grinned at the sight of Sherlock fast asleep in the chair arms lax around an equally asleep John. Greg snapped a photo on his phone before placing a spare orange shock blanket over the duo. Greg smirked at the photo; he would have fun with this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.
> 
> Warnings: um...fluff ahead.

(October/November 2015, John is 4.)

 

Sergeant Donovan sighed scrubbing her face wearily. More paperwork, yuck. And Greg had decided to call the Freak in, more scathing remarks about the Met tossed their way then. Although since Sherlock’s miraculous return from the dead he hadn’t been so much of a chore to be around.

Sally wasn’t sure if that was just her tolerating him or if he was actually a little less abrasive...It was her tolerating more, Sherlock hadn’t really changed.

She supposed it was fair enough. She had felt horrendous when she heard that Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide, even worse when she found out John had been made to watch.

It hadn’t been until four months after the jump from Barts that Sally had felt true remorse and guilt though. She had believed Sherlock Holmes had kidnapped the children, she had honestly believed Sherlock had been orchestrating everything...Who could be that clever? Sherlock Holmes could it appeared.

Four months after Sherlock’s suicide Daniel Anderson had come over to her, looking ashen and as though he was about to throw up. Daniel had then proceeded to show her the case files he had been examining, all the case files that Sherlock had helped with had needed to be looked over, checked. Sally had been horrified when she came to the end of Anderson’s speech.

Sherlock had been correct every single time, every single case. 

Sally had stared at Anderson mirroring his aghast look.

Then three years after his ‘death’ Sherlock had returned, gaunter and new shadows in his eyes but miraculously alive.

She didn’t know who was more shocked when Daniel Anderson apologised to Sherlock right in the middle of a crime scene, Sherlock or Greg. She had sincerely apologised too and she had been utterly shocked by the reasons why Sherlock had jumped. He had been protecting his friends, DI Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Doctor John Watson.

She didn’t necessarily like him, he may not have been a psychopath but he did delight in the most gruesome of crimes, but she no longer disparaged him or minded when Greg called him in to help, he did get results after all.

And Anderson actually worked with Sherlock, something he had always refused to do before. He did grit his teeth at times and snapped back occasionally when Sherlock became insulting but they got along in an odd antagonistic working relationship.

Sherlock hadn’t been angry at Sally or Daniel much to their surprise, he had been more expecting it. Sherlock had told them if it hadn’t been them it would have been someone else.

Also surprising was that John hadn’t been angry at them either, irritated and frustrated yes, but not angry. When John Watson was angry he was still, hands clenched, tightly controlled almost icy in his fury. When John was annoyed he paced before reigning in his annoyance or went for a walk to calm down.

Sally had expected John to blow up at them, maybe even punch them (or maybe punch Sherlock for pretending to die despite his reasoning) but John was not a violent man. The only times he ever resorted to actual physical violence was when he was attacked, his friends were attacked verbally or physically or if people were in danger.

It was stupid of her to think John would turn to violence but she had automatically assumed that because he was ex-military and had such a dangerous career with Sherlock that he would. And she knew it was stereotypical and not true in the least.

The army hadn’t taught John Watson violence but control. John never lashed out without thought. John Watson was surprisingly controlled, when he was angry truly angry, his breathing evened out his hands clenched, his head tilted to one side, his eyes were the only telling sign of his ire.

Sally had only ever seen him tackle a few suspects or disarm them and she had only ever seen him punch one person, the Superintendent.

And John’s lack of anger made her realise something, John Watson didn’t respect her. Well, not until after she had apologised to Sherlock and quit insulting him, the insults were fond now. He hadn’t respected her because she had regularly insulted and disdained a man who helped their cases, didn’t expect payment and who did his best to bring down the murderer.

He hadn’t respected her because she made derogatory remarks about a man who was his friend, he respected her ability to do her job but not her for herself.

Since Sherlock had returned (and she had apologised truthfully) she and John had found respect for one another. She hadn’t respected him before either purely due to his choice in friends and the fact she saw him as someone who just followed Sherlock around.

That wasn’t true. John stood his own, was a friend to Sherlock and was bloody brilliant to have on your side during a skirmish not to mention a dam fine doctor.

Sally sighed eyeing the paperwork with renewed distaste. She wandered over to Greg’s office holding some of the files she needed clarification on entering the office without bothering to knock, neither she nor Greg knocked when visiting each other’s office. 

Sally stopped and stared. There sitting in the chair fast asleep was Sherlock Holmes cuddling an equally fast asleep little blond haired boy to his chest an orange shock blanket thrown over them both. Sally was sure she was gaping; it was shocking more so than most of the murder crime scenes she saw on a regular basis.

Sally pinched herself sure she was dreaming a very weird odd dream. From the slight pain she obviously wasn’t dreaming. Sally jumped as a thump sound caught her attention and she realised she had accidently dropped several case files.

Sherlock’s head turned slightly but he didn’t wake the little boy however opened his eyes suddenly and yawned gripping tighter onto Sherlock’s coat seeking comfort as his face nuzzled Sherlock’s shirt.

Sally pinched herself again. Still awake.

Greg stood up from his chair stretching his stiff joints. Sally startled she hadn’t noticed Greg there, too absorbed in the fact a child had gone to Sherlock for comfort. Greg wandered over to the boy kneeling down so as to be the same height.

“Do you want to eat or drink anything John?” Greg asked softly so as not to wake the sleeping detective.

The small boy widened his strangely familiar blue eyes and nodded carefully clambering down from Sherlock patting his face gently as he went. When the boy reached the ground he swiftly nabbed Sherlock’s phone sliding it into his own pocket.

“Greg, pease can I have currants juice? Shlock no let me have tea, says its gots caffeen.” John asked taking the hand Greg held out to him.

“Course you can, Sally can you pick up some food and some black currant juice. We’ll go to your office, let’s let Sherlock sleep shall we?” Greg said leading the way holding onto John’s hand as John toddled after him. Sally too shocked to be annoyed at being delegated as the tea woman hurried off to get the drink. Sally was shocked that Sherlock knew that giving a young child tea (or caffeine) was not a good idea.

Thankfully the vending machine had blackcurrant juice in. Sally grabbed that and a sandwich handing it to John as she walked into her office. John was sitting on her desk swinging his legs looking round curiously.

“Thanks.” John said shyly putting the straw in his mouth.

“You’re welcome.” Sally said grinning at the cute scene and snapping a discrete picture.

“When was the last time Sherlock slept John?” Greg asked a hint of worry in his voice, it was unusual to say the least for Sherlock to actually crash out, especially around others. John counted on his fingers frowning.

“Umm...’bout tree days. An’ he only sleep ‘cause me an’ Mycoff put somfing in his tea. Mycoff order Shlock sleep but Shlock worryin’ too much. I had coughing, Shlock made me eat nasty medicine and shouted at the doctor.” John explained. Sally took a moment to translate from child babble to actual proper English.

“Three days! Bloody hell, no wonder Sherlock passed out then.” Greg exclaimed, he was always awful after two days of no sleep, after three he was an absolute zombie, falling asleep where he stood. Sherlock hadn’t slept for three days and was looking after a child it was a miracle he hadn’t just collapsed. Sally glared at Greg for swearing in front of a four year old.

“It was more but Mycoff an’ me puts powder in his tea tuh makes him sleepsy, Shlock was gettin’ grouchy.” John said frowning, Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be grumpy. Sally fought the urge to giggle; a four year old had managed to outsmart Sherlock. Greg managed to frown but his lip was twitching.

“John you shouldn’t drug Sherlock. And if you ever do without Mycroft there doing it with you or me then you could end up seriously harming Sherlock, you don’t want to hurt him, do you?” Greg asked this last softly but sternly. It would not do for John to think he was helping and actually poison Sherlock or someone else. John nodded solemnly eyes older than his bodies four years.

“My names Sally, what’s yours?” Sally asked curiously only just realising they hadn’t been introduced.

“John Hamesh Watson.” John replied seriously holding out his hand to shake. Sally shook it with a smile before John turned his attention back to the sandwich.

“So you’re related to John?” Sally asked noting the resemblance to Doctor Watson was uncanny. The boy frowned confused. Greg cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you go check on Sherlock, John?” Greg asked in a blatant ploy to get the child out of the room so he could explain.

John swallowed his mouthful with a nod and placed his rubbish carefully in the bin. He left them with a suspicious glance; obviously the boy knew Greg had wanted him out the room before he explained.

“That is Doctor John Watson, a scientist linked to Moriaty managed to drug him with a formula that turns you back into a child. John will grow about one year every two months  
physically and mentally.” Greg explained with a sigh.

Sally scoffed. “Yeah, yeah nice joke. Pull the other one.” Sally muttered sarcastically.

“I’m being serious.”

“Yeah and I’m the prime minister.” Sally rolled her eyes. Greg scrubbed his face with his hand.

“It’s the truth as far as I know.” Greg muttered. Sally frowned, it sounded almost well...magical. Surely such a formula couldn’t exist?

“So what does he know?” Sally asked decided to humour Greg for the moment, she wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Apparently things should return to him when he reaches the relative age he actually experienced things but he has vague memories of people he knew. He knew my first name and Sherlock only calls me Lestrade.” Greg sighed.

They stayed in silence for a while, Sally digesting the unbelievable information and Greg mulling it over. They both moved to the door when they realised John hadn’t returned.

Greg and Sally entered Greg’s office to find John sitting on the floor fiddling with Sherlock’s phone as he leaned against the sleeping detectives legs.

Sally leaned over attempting to see the screen and snorted. It seemed some classics never got old. John was playing Snake.

When Sherlock woke up he was led out yawning by a small John holding his hand. Sally again discretely took a photo, for blackmail...Not because it was cute...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2
> 
> Warnings:...even more fluff, it will get less fluffy soon...

(October/November 2015, John is 4.)

 

Sherlock looked around the store mentally running through every single place a child John’s size could hide. Where on earth had John disappeared to?

Giggling, giggling that sounded like John, right. Sherlock followed the faint noise still looking round trying to see everything, any clue to where John was.

A clothes stand! Clever, clever place for John to hide. Sherlock nearly preened, other children weren’t as smart as John was although John wasn’t as smart as Sherlock or Mycroft had been as children.

Sherlock reached into the clothes stand ignoring the few clothes hangers that fell off the rail and grasped a tiny arm. Sherlock tugged, not too harshly, and pulled a giggling John out. John giggled harder as he caught sight of Sherlock’s mildly put out face and he leapt (how could such a small child leap so high?) right into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock caught him by reflex, luckily, and tucked him into his side balancing on his hip.

Sherlock pulled a face and John tried to grab the toys that were displayed ready for a child to beg and plead their caretaker. Sherlock repressed the urge to personally flagellate whoever had designed the toys layout as John was constantly eyeing everything wanting to touch or stroke a certain teddies fur or to press buttons on a toy etc.

Sherlock looked around for something that would prove both educational for John and appease his boredom; a bored little John was not something Sherlock wanted to experience again...ever. 

He still couldn’t get the stains out and he needed new beakers and glass vials for his experiments. Sherlock had removed all harmful substances to 221C Baker Street flat so John could no longer get his hands on the dangerous chemicals or wreck Sherlock’s experiments...again.

“Look Shlock!” John said all too loudly in Sherlock’s left ear bouncing painfully on Sherlock’s hip and pointing with childish abandon. Sherlock followed the eager finger...a rather large stuffed toy, a pink elephant in fact. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the boy who wasn’t taking his eyes off the monstrosity.

“It is a rather garish shade of pink.” Sherlock offered not entirely sure as to what John was getting at.

Eventually Sherlock managed to tear John away from the...toy (more like torture weapon, honestly what self respecting child would want that?) and took him to the at least slightly educational area of the shop.

“Pick three.” Sherlock muttered succinctly as he placed John carefully on the ground keeping a hold on one tiny hand. John took this statement seriously scanning the toys with a thoughtful frown as he tried to pick out the three he definitely couldn’t live without. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tapped away on his phone wincing whenever a particularly bothersome child screeched piercingly. He was glad John was quiet although it didn’t appear to be the norm for children his age...hmmm.

Sherlock paused. Maybe he should get into contact with Harriet, Harry, John’s sister. She would be a vital source on what John was like as a child and Sherlock would then be able to tell what characteristics were John in his second childhood and what could have been influenced by the serum and the vague memories John had of his adult life.

John finally picked out three things and although Sherlock was glad John had put some thought into it unlike the screaming mass of children he was rather put out it had taken John nearly half an hour to decide.

John’s choices were interesting. He chose a children’s xylophone, with only ten notes and painted in bright block colours, an odd crocodile head game where you press down the teeth and when a certain one is pressed the head snaps down ‘biting’ your finger; the trigger tooth changed each time and a soft toy sheep.

Sherlock briefly entertained the thought that the crocodile teeth game was supplying John’s need for danger but in child form before dismissing the thought, John had just chosen something he might enjoy no further thought to it than that.

It had been amusing though, watching his tiny blogger jump and squeal in utter glee as the crocodile (on display not the one they were buying) snapped its jaw capturing John’s tiny fingers in its mouth. John had looked so utterly gobsmacked before the squeals and happy giggles had began that Sherlock hadn’t been able to resist snapping a photo on his phone.

If nothing else he could always embarrass John with it when he was an adult again.

John settled happily back in Sherlock’s arm, body warm and pliant with content tiredness. Sherlock nearly smiled as John yawned into his neck, apparently young children needed naps and John was no exception.

“Sherlock?!” A voice called sounding somewhat astonished and incredulous. Sherlock turned around hiding his eye roll.

“Molly.” Sherlock greeted with a curt nod scanning her automatically.

New top, never worn before-hadn’t been washed with Molly’s usual washing powder, top fitted to Molly’s form, so out to impress. Shoe laces replaced by newer ones, first or second time at replacing them, Molly liked the shoes they were comfortable and both smart enough for work and not too smart to wear casually, Molly usually wouldn’t replace worn shoelaces unless she was out to impress someone, so a mixture of comfort and to make a good impression. Suggesting not first meeting or date but it wasn’t quite far enough into the relationship for Molly to just wear her casual clothes. Traces of coffee on her breath and the slight shadows under her eyes spoke of a late night; late night spent covering someone’s shift at the morgue. Eyes flickering around, catching on the clock several times suggesting her date is late and had stood her up before, possibly for a good reason seeing as Molly was still trying to impress. Shoe laces match new top.

“Hello.” John greeted cheerfully all earlier signs of fatigue dissipated. John’s voice had a hint of question in it, John was obviously wondering who Molly was.

“Hello. Who is this then?” Molly asked addressing John smiling warmly at the young child.

“I’s name John Hameash Watson, what names yours?” John asked flashing a smile that got nearly everyone doing what he wanted; even Mycroft had fallen for it to begin with.

“It’s ‘my name is’ and your name isn’t ‘Hameash’ it’s Hamish. If you want to know someone’s name you ask ‘what is your name’.” Sherlock corrected absently noting Molly’s slight shock at the young boy having exactly the same name as Sherlock’s flatmate.

“My names Molly Hooper, it’s nice to meet you John.” Molly said again smiling warmly at the sweet young boy flashing his dimples. John it seemed decided to like Molly instantly showing none of his usual distrust for strangers or even the trust issues he had as an adult. Maybe John remembered Molly a bit? Or at least unconsciously remembered her.

“’Speriment went wrong, bad men trying to be nasty to us so now I’s four. In five years time I’s be thirty an big ‘gain.” John explained with a grin wriggling to be put down. Sherlock resisted the urge to snort, John had never been a ‘big’ man, he was shorter than average and he had never gained the muscle or weight mass he had had before he was shot, John could be described as ‘slight’, not as thin as Sherlock though.

Sherlock obliged his flatmate setting him on his feet before straightening up holding firmly onto one little hand.

John wrapped around Sherlock’s legs like a cat twisting Sherlock’s arm until he had to let go and reclaim the hand.

“Brat.” Sherlock said fondly swatting gently at the giggling blond. Molly choked eyes wide but didn’t say anything.

“Molly you’se should marries Greg.” John stated out of the blue nodding with utter seriousness a though his word was law. Molly blinked. Sherlock stared at the little boy utterly bewildered.

“Why do you think that?” Molly finally managed to ask having quelled her blush slightly.

“’Cause he’s ‘lone and your ‘lone and he looks like he likes you when he stares. An’ ‘cause he’s watches you over there.” John finished pointing a few meters away where Greg stood slightly awkwardly obviously not wanting to interrupt Molly and Sherlock’s conversation.

Greg seeing them looking walked over greeting Molly with a slight awkward peck on the cheek, they hadn’t been dating long enough for the casual touches to be the norm and easy. Greg crouched down to where John was once again trying to twist himself around Sherlock’s legs.

“Hey there little man, what have you been up to?” Greg asked smiling softly at the young boy. John grinned then tried to scowl, Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh as did Molly and Greg, his face had screwed up in an odd contorted shape.

“I’s not little!” John said adamantly before grinning again all smiles and happiness. “Shlock’s gots me toys.” John said again twining around Sherlock ignoring Sherlock’s mild attempts to stop him.

“Ah, and what sort of toys?” Greg asked as if they were sharing a secret. Sherlock rolled his eyes but John’s grin widened and he lowered his voice to a childish whisper that meant they could all still hear everything he said.

“Fun toys!” John responded. Sherlock bit back a snort. That was informative. Greg nodded.

“Did you choose them yourself then?” He asked still kneeling. John nodded and Greg ruffled his hair fondly before getting to his feet.

John yawned.

“Right it’s time to get you home.” Sherlock said to John hoisting him back in his arms. John didn’t complain he just nodded compliantly rubbing at one eye with a small fist and setting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Cans Molly and Gregs comes to home with us?” John asked sleepily fiddling with Sherlock’s scarf.

“I’m sure they have other things to do John.” Sherlock replied not letting Molly or Greg get a word in edgeways. John whined irritably. Greg sensing an oncoming argument with a sleepily grumpy boy spoke up.

“Why don’t me and Molly visit you later, this evening? Hmmm? And then you can show us your toys.” Greg suggested not asking Sherlock. Sherlock scowled but didn’t say anything as John relaxed further with a satisfied nod.

He couldn’t deny the pout John wielded with the finesse of a true professional or the pleading big blue eyes. John was an utter menace; he could get away with anything if he widened his eyes and pouted hard enough, something the little boy knew all too well. To be fair though he didn’t usually wield those weapons, it was only a last resort.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.
> 
> Warnings: um...

(October/November 2015, John is 4.)

 

Sherlock entered 221B carefully keeping the bundle in his arms away from the door frame and making sure he was still asleep.

The cabbie had been very considerate; apparently one of his children (not the one with chicken pox) always fell asleep in cars and had held the door open for them waiting patiently for Sherlock to fish out the money from his pockets while jostling John as little as possible.

Sherlock set John down on the couch safely wrapped up in one of the shock blankets and still asleep.

Sherlock swiftly went down to 221C to check on one of his ongoing experiments for a minute or two before he returned to see John still safely ensconced on the sofa.

Sherlock quietly got out an experiment he could actually do in 221B safe from John’s grabby hands and extremely unlikely to be poisonous or harmful in any way. So lost in his thoughts and musings he didn’t notice the sleepy pile of blankets moving nor did he notice the mischievous grin and gleaming blue eyes.

Sherlock yelped as cold water suddenly hit his face. He looked up (well down) to see John, cheeky grin firmly in place and tell tale water pistol held tightly in his hands ready to fire again.

The next few minutes consisted of Sherlock chasing John around the flat as John proved his formidable aim by getting Sherlock. Every. Single. Time.

Sherlock didn’t even try to keep the grin off his face as he repeatedly ‘caught’ John, tickled him breathless then released him only to repeat. John’s breathless giggles were contagious and Sherlock found himself laughing along with John as they ran through the flat scattering things here and there, launching bits of paper at one another and leaping over the furniture.

“What have you done?!” Mrs Hudson near shrieked as she surveyed the flat that was covered, an absolute mess. John stopped wide eyed staring at Mrs Hudson in shock, water pistol still in his hands. Sherlock attempted to smooth down his hair and straighten his jacket to no avail. Mrs Hudson glared at them hands on her hips.

“You two! Honestly. Clear this up and then ten minutes in the naughty corner, you both know not to make such a mess and John I have told you not to use your water pistol indoors, young man.” Mrs Hudson ordered still looking a little cross as she surveyed the utter chaos.

Silently they got to work Mrs Hudson watching and occasionally helping out straightening and neatening the furniture as she went sending the occasional disapproving look. Sherlock could have sworn her lips were twitching with the effort not to smile.

When they were done John was sent to his naughty corner as was Sherlock. They had learned early on that John did not appreciate it if the punishment was unfair and he was much more likely to take his punishment in good grace if Sherlock also followed through if he had broken the rules as well. Sherlock eyed his violin (carefully out of reach of grabby fingers) longingly.

It was utterly boring spending ten minutes facing a blank stretch of wall...so dull. He could understand why it was such a good punishment, it was boring.

 

Xxx

 

Molly and Greg were shown up to the flat by Mrs Hudson and stared at the sight of Sherlock in one corner facing the wall and John in another corner also facing the wall. Greg bit his lip in an effort not to laugh and Molly coughed.

“They made an awful mess of the room and they know water pistols shouldn’t be used indoors.” Mrs Hudson chided gently. John sniffed.

The naughty corner was the most effective punishment they could have found for John, it left him stewing over his actions and he was always repentant when it was over. He was always much more cuddly after a naughty corner situation and needed reassurance that of course they weren’t going to get rid of him.

John sniffed again swiping at his eyes. Sherlock left his corner and went over to John cuddling the little boy to him and whispering in his ear. Greg watched wide eyed, he hadn’t seen Sherlock so obviously demonstrative since, well...ever. It was nice to see but a little (read: a lot) alarming.

Eventually John detached himself from Sherlock and at Sherlock’s gentle push he slowly shuffled over to Mrs Hudson rubbing at his eyes pitifully.

“Not cross?” John asked looking up at Mrs Hudson beseechingly. She smiled softly crouching with a wince to her dickey hip drawing John into a firm embrace. She pretended not to notice John wiping his face in her blouse nor his remaining sniffles.

The door bell went and Greg answered. He came up a few seconds later bearing a few bags filled with take away, expensive take away. Sherlock scowled at the packages.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock bit out looking put out. John on the other hand looked absolutely gleeful.

“Food!” He exclaimed happily attempting to help Greg bring it to the table but only slowing Greg’s process.

“I’ll just be downstairs if you need anything.” Mrs Hudson called as she left the room.

Molly watched in concern as John nearly inhaled his food mouth bulging like a chipmunk. A very messy adorable chipmunk.

“Mycoff ‘ways gets the goods foods.” John stated as he methodically devoured his chicken nuggets. There was food for the adults, a nice thai, and food that was obviously for John, there was teddy bear shaped chicken nuggets.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You say that now. The first time he took you to a posh restaurant and you threw a fit when you saw the snails and lobsters. Since then he has been sure to get the child friendly version.” Sherlock said with a smirk. Even he had known feeding a young child with adult ‘delicacies’ was not a good idea.

The only thing Mycroft had gotten right concerning the menu that day was the desert and you couldn’t really go wrong with chocolate cake and children. Seeing Mycroft with chocolate stains on his carefully laundered suit had made Sherlock’s week.

“When did you last feed him?” Greg asked eyes wide as John savagely tore into his teddy nuggets like he waging war. Sherlock glared balefully at Greg as he picked at his portion actually deigning to eat a little. 

“Four hours and thirty-seven minutes ago to be precise.” Sherlock sniffed.

Fifteen minutes later, with all the food either eaten or packed away Greg and Molly situated themselves on either side of John on the sofa. John drowsy now rested his head on Molly’s lap and his feet in Greg’s. Molly smiled at the little boy gently carding a hand through his hair.

Greg hid a smile when he noted the covetous looks sent in John’s direction. Obviously Sherlock was feeling slightly annoyed his John had decided to go to Molly and him instead of Sherlock. Greg shook his head, the kid adored Sherlock, even more than the adult because to John the child Sherlock was a cool, brave man who looked after him and gave him chocolate cake. The man who played with him and was always there.

Sure enough it wasn’t long before John was wriggling off the couch and clambering onto Sherlock’s lap imperiously adjusting Sherlock to where he wanted before curling up one arm clasping Sherlock’s hand and another wrapped around a soft toy frog.

Seeing Greg’s gaze Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask. Its Mycroft’s idea of a teddy, a frog of all things! John is ridiculously attached to it and his teddy is currently being...sanitised. It didn’t react well to the undiluted sulphuric acid...” Sherlock trailed off at Greg and Molly’s incredulous looks.

“I do hope you’re not keeping those chemicals anywhere John can get to them.” Molly said bluntly. Sherlock nodded.

“I moved all the equipment and hazardous equipment to 221C. I’m renting it out for my experiments. Apparently looking after a child has proved to Mycroft I’m responsible enough for him to let me have full access to my trust fund. He assumed if I was given access to it before I would spend it all on rare and unusual chemicals.” Sherlock glared when Greg looked like he was going to agree.

“Utterly ridiculous of course. I wouldn’t spend my money on expensive chemicals. I’d borrow Mycroft’s bank account for that.” Sherlock stated with absolutely no shame. Greg rubbed his face not quite able to stifle a grin at Sherlock’s audacity.

“You’re doing alright though, dealing with a kid?” Greg asked concerned, relived when Sherlock nodded despite the slight hesitance of Sherlock’s response. “From what I can see you’re doing fine, the kid adores you.” Greg swore Sherlock’s cheeks pinked slightly at that, Sherlock denied all knowledge. Of course.

“If you ever need a baby sitter I could help.” Molly said with a warm smile sent to the sleeping boys direction. Sherlock nodded filing away the information. “He probably shouldn’t be around the cadavers while I’m working though.” Molly added frowning in thought.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. Greg stared.

“Sherlock, children aren’t supposed to see dead bodies.” Greg stated.

“I repeat. Why not? He will eventually see them when he gets his memories back and a lot worse than in a morgue. Surely it would be good to get him used to it now while he’s young?” Sherlock stopped at their incredulous looks. “Ah. Not good.” He muttered to himself looking down at his young flatmate looking for once a little lost.

Greg frowned. It had just occurred to him that for at least five years Sherlock had essentially lost his best friend and occasionally nanny. And Sherlock didn’t have friends, Greg counted him as a friend but he was sure (nearly positive) that Sherlock didn’t see him as the same. John was really his only contact with normal human beings that genuinely liked Sherlock for Sherlock. He felt slight pity for the man. He supposed though that it was an unintentional revenge. Sherlock had after all left John believing him to be dead for three years and now Sherlock was left with someone completely different to his flatmate for five.

Greg wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. At the moment it seemed to be slightly humanising Sherlock but after months? Years? Would it be good in the long run. Not to mention the psychological effects this would have on John, two childhoods, completely different.

Greg sighed suddenly exhausted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of child abuse and spousal abuse, murder, alcoholism...um...

(October/November 2015, John is 4.)

 

Sherlock frowned at the giggling boy trotting along in his wake. He sighed as he saw the coat which had been zipped up was undone...again. It had taken him ages to get John to even wear the dam thing let alone the time spent actually zipping it shut, John hadn’t kept still for one second.

Sherlock swiftly grabbed the wriggling boy and held him upside down by the ankle with one hand while the other hand managed to zip up the coat. John giggled thrilled at being held upside down face slowly turning red. Gently Sherlock set him back down rolling his eyes at the boy’s pleased countenance.

A tall man dressed impeccably strode over swinging a large black umbrella.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock bit out looking ever so slightly irate. 

“Mycoff!” John exclaimed in a far brighter tone and happier expression than Sherlock had used.

“John.” Mycroft nodded smiling thinly as he carefully held the little boys hand as though holding any tighter would result in breaking the boy. Sherlock twisted his mouth oddly and he eyed the pair with an unreadable expression.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Sherlock said hesitantly hands twitching, resisting the urge to grab John and return to Baker Street.

“Nonsense. You need to know about John’s first childhood and Harriet Watson is the best person to ask. John will be fine without you for a few hours.” Mycroft reassured Sherlock briskly.

“Wasn’t the file on John informative enough?” Sherlock sniped. Mycroft’s lips thinned.

“It wasn’t.” Mycroft agreed enigmatically, slowly leading the little boy over to a sleek black car with tinted windows. Sherlock frowned; obviously Mycroft knew something Sherlock didn’t. Sherlock stepped forward gently squeezing John’s shoulder in goodbye. John frowned.

“Shlock?” John questioned hesitantly. Sherlock sighed crouching on the ground so as to meet John’s eyes.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. Be bad for Mycroft.” Sherlock finished with a smirk. John giggled and Mycroft rolled his eyes, honestly.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock knocked on the green door the paint peeling with age the dark green almost resembling mould. The door opened to reveal a small woman scowling up at him, mousy ginger hair mussed; eyes red rimmed and red nosed from overindulging in alcohol.

“Harriet Watson?” Sherlock asked even though it was obvious this woman was John’s sister they shared some similar facial characteristics and this was her house. She nodded staring at him suspiciously.

“You’re Johnny’s friend. The detective, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t it?” Harriet said frowning at him. Sherlock nodded. Her scowl deepened.

“Why are you here? Not buggering off for another three years leaving Johnny grieving again are you?” Harriet asked belligerently. Sherlock rose an unimpressed eyebrow. While he commended her on her protection of her brother’s feelings, she just wasn’t very intimidating. He was sure she could be but she was currently more than a little tipsy and the shadows under her eyes cited her lack of sleep.

“Questions.” Sherlock said brushing past Harry without a by your leave and making his way to the kitchen. Harry spluttered at his audacity before slamming the door shut and stalking after him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry questioned angrily hands on her hips. Sherlock sniffed disregarding her annoyance.

“Tea?” He asked unrepentantly, holding up a box of tea bags. Harry scowled at him before sinking into a chair nodding sulkily accepting his intrusion into her house; she was far to pissed to properly care. Sherlock made the tea in silence, he much preferred it when John made tea but that probably wouldn’t be happening for at least a year, small children weren’t supposed to carry boiling hot water according to the internet. Sherlock handed Harry a mug of tea settling opposite her in a chair. Harry took a sip of tea not bothering to let it cool first nor wincing as it burnt her mouth slightly.

“Johnny’s okay, right?” Harry asked looking for the first time slightly worried; surely Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t come to her house to inform her about something bad that had happened to Johnny, right? Sherlock paused.

“John’s fine.” Sherlock said, he wasn’t lying, not exactly. Harry visibly relaxed at that, turning disinterested bleary blue eyes to Sherlock.

“What are you doing here then?” Harry asked setting her nearly untouched tea down on the coffee table marred by rings from spilt drinks and no one bothering with coasters.

“What was yours and John’s childhood like? What was John like as a child?” Sherlock said getting straight to the point. Harry rubbed her eyes yawning tiredly.

“Not much to tell really. What does it matter?” Harry asked sharply eyes a little more alert than before and visibly unnerved by the direction the conversation had taken. Sherlock filed away her rather telling responses and smiled blandly.

“John has had an...accident. An unknown chemical was injected into his blood stream and the consequences were...extreme.” Sherlock began haltingly.

“Get to the point.” Harry ordered not bothering to sift through the waffle Sherlock had just spoken.

“Fine. John had been turned into a child and will remain so for a while despite his accelerated aging.” Sherlock explained bluntly. Harry blinked.

“You’re off your rocker.” Harry said eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. Sherlock inclined his head in mild agreement as he pulled out a small stack of photos.

“It is rather improbable but it is the truth. John is the equivalent of his four year old self.” Sherlock stated handing over the pictures that had been snapped recently.

Harry blearily looked at the picture of what appeared to be her four year old brother beaming brightly at the camera as he got ice cream on his nose. Her brother at four years old sleeping peaceably on a sofa wrapped up in an orange blanket small smile lighting up his youthful features. There was another with Sherlock holding John upside down by the ankle, John looked to be giggling eyes gleaming happily and face slowly turning red.

Harry sighed handing them back to Sherlock, one finger tracing over the happy sunny smile John wore in the photo wistfully.

“I don’t trust you and I’m not convinced. But let’s pretend I do for the moment. What do you need to know?” Harry sighed scrubbing her face with a hand, eyes flickering to the photos every few seconds.

“Anything about his childhood would be useful.” Sherlock stated eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched her look to the pictures again.

“Well...what has Johnny mentioned about it before?” Harry asked stalling. Sherlock frowned.

“Nothing, he doesn’t talk about it.” Sherlock said frowning. He hadn’t noticed before but John knew far more about Sherlock’s childhood and past than Sherlock knew of John’s which was unusual; in fact it was unheard of that someone knew more about him than he did them.

“Our father was a drunkard and our mother let him walk all over her, he got angry over everything and anything when he was drunk which was all the time. I’m sure you can deduce the rest.” Harry said tightly hands twitching as she looked from the photos to the cupboard where she kept her alcohol. Sherlock nodded standing up to leave. He stopped when a small hand grabbed onto his coat sleeve stopping him. Sherlock turned to face Harry. Harry’s face held a cocktail of emotions.

“He looks happy, in the photos.” Harry’s eyes flickered to the photos Sherlock held once again. “He never looked that happy before.” She let go of his sleeve sinking back into her seat and staring at her hands.

Sherlock straightened his sleeve placing the small stack of photos on the kitchen table for Harry to find later before standing still in the doorway to the lounge where Harry was sitting. Harry didn’t believe him that John had been de-aged but she wanted to. She wanted John to have a good childhood to look back on; she wanted him to be happy. So she hoped Sherlock was telling the truth without actually believing it. 

“Due to the seriousness of this information and the potential consequences I trust you won’t divulge it to anyone.” Sherlock eventually stated without lacing his words with threat.

“Piss off.” Harry muttered not even looking up.

Sherlock showed himself out of the house.

Absently Sherlock wandered he barely remembered the address he gave to the cabbie, lost as he was in his thoughts.

Obviously there was much more to it than Harry had said but Harry wasn’t going to give Sherlock anything else. Sherlock once again marvelled at his friend’s strength. John was the strongest man Sherlock knew and he didn’t mean the muscle type of strength.

Before Sherlock knew it he found himself inside Lestrade’s office. Sherlock settled himself in the chair opposite Lestrade’s ignoring the questions Greg sent his way. Eventually Greg got the message and went back to his paper work ignoring Sherlock’s presence. About an hour after he had arrived Sherlock stirred catching Greg’s attention.

“I went to visit Harry, John’s older sister.” Sherlock stated.

“I take it the visit didn’t go well then.” Greg said sitting up straighter in his chair. Sherlock snorted.

“No it was alright. Harry didn’t say much but what she did say was...informative.” Sherlock said slight bitterness twisting his words. “Can I borrow your laptop?” Sherlock asked. Greg handed it over looking surprised.

“You’re actually asking first.” He said with no small surprise. Sherlock tapped away entering Greg’s password without a pause to even think. Greg sighed, resigned. He had only ever seen John stump Sherlock when it came to passwords and even then it had only taken Sherlock 30 minutes to guess Gladstone. That the Woman had managed to stump Sherlock for months was unprecedented. 

“Why do you need my laptop?” Greg asked curiously.

“It’s quicker than me hacking the Yards data base.” Sherlock said absently. Greg huffed still a little peeved Sherlock could do that so easily. 

“Why do you need to look at the Yards records?” Greg asked impatiently. Sherlock rolled his eyes much like Greg was resisting to do.

“I’m checking to see if John’s mother or father was ever arrested or if they have a criminal record.” Sherlock said clicking and going through the files at a speed that made Greg envious, it took him ages to find what he needed to whenever he went through the electronic files. There was silence for a few minutes as Greg went back to his paper work and Sherlock swiftly went through the records.

“Aha!” Sherlock exclaimed reading through the page he had just loaded with a searching gaze. Greg leaned over his shoulder to look as well eyes widening as he read.

When he was finished Greg sat down in his chair closing his eyes wearily and Sherlock closed the laptop with a harsh snap throwing himself back into his chair.

“The poor sod.” Greg said eventually. Sherlock scowled.

“If you’re talking about the utter waste of oxygen that was John’s father then-” Sherlock stopped when Greg cut him off.

“Of course I’m not talking about him! I’m talking about John!” Greg exclaimed. He shuddered. He had no idea how John had managed to turn out so well adjusted. Actually thinking about it, he wouldn’t call living with Sherlock and working with him well adjusted...

“He was there when his own mother was murdered by his father...” Greg muttered to himself disbelievingly. It was probably lucky the man was in jail by the murderous expression on Sherlock’s face.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock entered 221B slowly climbing up the stairs with none of his usual speed or vivacity. Greg followed after him slowly both struggling under the weight of the new knowledge that they had never even guessed at.

Sherlock settled in his chair while Greg went to the kitchen putting on the kettle and busying himself making tea. Sherlock’s lips skewed a bit in amusement, tea was John’s panacea, his cure for everything. Sherlock’s near smile turned into a frown, John wasn’t here right now, he was a child not John, not Sherlock’s John.

Sherlock stirred when he heard small hurried footsteps followed by a quiet controlled tread come up the stairs. Suddenly John burst into the room face smeared with chocolate and a bright grin plastered over his face.

John leapt onto Sherlock’s lap hugging him tightly and getting chocolate smears all over Sherlock’s clean shirt. Sherlock grimaced as with practised ease he removed the handkerchief from his pocket and held John still with one hand while wiping away the chocolate with his other hand.

Mycroft sat in the chair slumping minutely, not enough for anyone but Sherlock to really notice. Sherlock smirked at his brother.

“You’ve fed him almost on pure sugar.” Sherlock said amusement mixed with dismay, he had to deal with a hyperactive child now. Mycroft sighed quietly.

“Are children always so...” Mycroft waved an elegant hand about vaguely. Greg and Sherlock snorted.

“Yes, children do seem to have boundless energy and John is no exception. He even seems to be better than most.” Greg said with a grin, it was true John was better behaved than most four year olds. Although looking at him now...

John wiggled off Sherlock’s lap pouting at Sherlock for having cleaned his face. John stuck his tongue out at Sherlock before running over to Greg and getting him to play with him.

Mycroft left soon after not bothering to offer to look after John for the afternoon again, much to Sherlock’s amusement. Sherlock eyed John speculatively, he could use Mycroft’s avoidance of looking after children to his advantage...Maybe arrange a children’s party to be held in Mycroft’s office? No, then he’d have to actually organise it, urgh.

Greg grinned when he saw John carefully placing a blanket over Sherlock’s slumbering form. It was sweet that even as a child John was looking out for Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.
> 
> Warnings: vague mentions of child neglect, flu jabs...um...

(December 2015, John is 5.)

Sherlock attempted to stifle his utter boredom. Why on earth had he agreed to go with John to get his flu jab? Surely Mrs Hudson would be better... Why hadn’t he paid a private doctor? Anything was better than suffering this mindless tedium. 

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the armrest of his dreadful chair irritably. He deliberately averted his gaze from the two shrieking laughing children who had somehow got a balloon...oh the decorations promoting donations for cancer research had a missing balloon or two...of all things and were noisily batting it back and forth in the room.

Any other time and John would probably be wanting to join in despite the fact he was (looked) a couple of years older than the toddlers.

Sherlock glanced at John sitting next to him looking incredibly small in the adult chair fidgeting and tugging at the hem of his jumper in a mix of nerves and intrigue.

Curiously John seemed to be fascinated with medicine, the human body and with doctors even at such a young age. Was that something he got from his vague recollections of being an army doctor or had John been this curious in his first childhood?

Surely John being such a healthy child didn’t actually need a flu jab? Sherlock had never been subjected to one. He supposed John’s situation was a little different from the norm as his body aged six times more quickly than the average human thus the strain on his body including his immune system was far greater.

“Finally.” Sherlock drawled irritably as he tucked his phone away and led John to the consulting room when John’s name was called.

John squeezed his hand tightly face set in determination fear plucking at the tight jaw and narrowed eyes. John was determined not to seem like a baby and cry as the other younger children had done but he didn’t like the hospital, there was an odd wariness at the back of his mind about them and he hadn’t liked his first meeting with a doctor.

Sherlock (well Mycroft) had called a private doctor in to check up on John soon after John had been injected by the serum and turned into a child and John had not been pleased to have a doctor prodding and poking at him or taking lots of blood samples...that probably explained his apprehension at coming in today.

Sherlock had promised no more nasty needles so he wasn’t sure what John would do or say when he realised he was there for a flu jab.

Sherlock strategically blocked the door from John escaping when they entered the small child friendly doctor’s room. The doctor, a Joan Demter, smiled warmly at John trying to set him at ease. Sherlock scanned her briefly before settling John into the chair. John looked at the sharps bin with dawning suspicion.

Sherlock nearly smiled, clever, clever child. He decided to frown instead; John being clever only made his job all the more difficult.

John turned wide wounded eyes to Sherlock. “You promised Shlock!” John exclaimed looking both cross and hurt. Sherlock resisted the urge to either cave to the child’s big blue eyes or to laugh, John’s expressions were amusing.

“Getting one jab will stop you getting ill and having to visit the doctors another time.” Sherlock said motioning to the doctor to get on with it.

“But you promised no stabby!” John protested staring at Sherlock while Sherlock pulled off John’s jumper and rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Sherlock held John still while the doctor administered the vaccine, ignoring the tears that welled up in John’s wide eyes and the betrayed look.

Sherlock carefully put John’s jumper back on mindful of the slightly sore arm where it had been vaccinated. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John visibly perked up when the doctor handed him a green lolly. John didn’t speak to Sherlock when they walked out of the surgery even as he devoured his lolly with single minded determination, nor did he say anything when they returned to Baker Street. John was silent in the cab and when they got to 221B he wandered into his room not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t like the silent accusation from John, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Sherlock huffed as he settled into his chair. He wondered how long it would take John to forgive him for this latest transgression.

Two hours later and John still hadn’t come out of his room when Sherlock received a text from Greg asking him to come to a crime scene.

Sherlock jumped up ready to pull on his coat and scarf his mouth ready to call out for John before he remembered that John was a child now and it was his responsibility to collect John’s coat, gloves, scarf and shoes.

“John!” Sherlock called. John silently walked to the lounge area of their flat slight frown still on his face. He remained silent barely moving as Sherlock dressed him warmly making sure to bring an extra jacket just in case. He was still sulking by the time they got to the crime scene.

Sherlock huffed handing John to Sally who was standing at the edge of the taped off area and far enough away from it that John wouldn’t be able to see the body.

“Be good for Donovan.” Sherlock warned rolling his eyes when John just turned his face away from Sherlock burying his face into Sally’s leg. Sherlock ignored Sally’s questioning look at the odd behaviour and strode off to the observe the body before Anderson and the other forensics moved the evidence.

Sally looked down at the small boy clinging onto her leg. She stroked his hair gently crouching down so she could meet his eyes. John’s face was set in a mulish expression lips in the barest pout.

“So, why are you annoyed at Sherlock?” Sally asked. She made sure to pose the question lightly, she doubted Sherlock had actually done anything bad, he seemed oddly protective and good with little John. In fact Sally would go so far as to say she would trust any child in Sherlock’s care from the way he looked after John, well maybe not. John was the exception, not the rule. Although even on cases Sherlock was mildly nicer to the children than he was to adults, when he didn’t forget they were there, of course.

John muttered something. Sally frowned. “What was that?” She asked gently.

“He promised that he wouldn’t lets me gets stabby by nasty doctors an’ he lied! The doctor stabby me ans now my arm hurtses.” John whined rubbing his sore arm. Sally pressed her lips together to prevent herself from laughing out loud.

“Did it really hurt that badly?” Sally asked when she was sure she could control her amusement. John hesitated.

“But whys I needs fluey stabby whens I no have fluey.” John complained. Sally bit her lip but she couldn’t help a smile escaping. John glared.

“Well sometimes people need a flu jab so they don’t get sick later. Wouldn’t you rather just one jab like today than going to hospital and having lots of jabs?” Sally asked. John hesitated before agreeing sulkily pushing his face into Sally’s neck and leaning on her. Sally cuddled John deliberately not thinking of the fact that when this little boy grew back up to the man he had been he would be at least a little embarrassed.

Sally stood up placing John on her hip his arms wrapped around her neck.

It was nice, Sally thought absently, to hold such a warm child, to have a small being so utterly dependent on you. Although there were downsides, Sally had never seen Sherlock so tired before, it seemed Sherlock was almost always yawning now he had to look after a child and actually sleep instead of his awful sleep schedule he used normally. And Sherlock had put on some much needed weight, sometimes John refused to eat until Sherlock did as well and while that wouldn’t work when John was an adult as a child it was a devastatingly effective ploy.

Sherlock returned swiftly to Sally and John, obviously the answer hadn’t taken him long to reach, he had barely spent ten minutes at the scene.

John happily went to Sherlock beaming up at him much to Sherlock’s evident confusion. Sherlock looked from John to Sally before nodding his thanks to Sally for talking to John and walking off to catch a taxi and go somewhere to eat, John was hungry.

Sherlock settled John and him into a booth in the back of Angelo’s restaurant. Sherlock ordered for them both, he had learned the hard way that if John was left to his own devices he would order a desert instead of a meal. Sherlock met John’s pleading expression with a cool calm look.

“No, John. The doctor said you were supposed to drink more water than usual because of the flu jab, I’m supposed to keep you hydrated. You can have a hot chocolate when we go back to Baker Street.” Sherlock said gently extracting the menu from John’s little hands. John’s resultant pout only lasted until their food arrived, when John dug in with gusto. 

Apparently the fact he was aging so quickly meant his appetite was bigger than the average child’s, his body just burned through the food more quickly.

John stopped when he was half way through his meal and stared pointedly at Sherlock’s still full plate. Sherlock rolled his eyes and ate a forkful under John’s scrutiny. Once John was satisfied Sherlock was eating properly he went back to his own meal. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even as a child John worried about people.

Sherlock eyed John suspiciously when a slightly crafty look appeared on the young boys face.

“’Cause Ise gots the stabby do I gets cake?” John asked hopefully. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Passable attempt at coercing me into letting you have dessert, your emotional manipulation is surprisingly good for a child of your age. I do hope you’ll improve with time.” Sherlock sniffed handing over the dessert menu with a small smile. John ignored his comment focusing on the things he could understand, like the fact Sherlock was letting him have cake.

Sherlock eyed the decorations littering the restaurant with distaste. Christmas was Sherlock’s favourite time of the year. Not because of the holiday, the festivity or the food but because it was the time of the year when crime rates were at an all time high. Murders, family disputes, thievery and other interesting crimes abounded during December and January.

Sherlock got some pretty interesting cases from people hiring him during the Christmas season and a few from the Yard were curious enough to warrant his assistance. 

Sherlock stiffened as a sudden thought hit him. He eyed John speculatively.

“What do you think of Christmas John?” Sherlock asked slowly. John shrugged far more focused on his cake than Sherlock’s questions.

“Chrismass is cold. An’ Harry reads me stories.” John said not noticing the significance of this time of year.

Sherlock swallowed. Shouldn’t a child’s first thoughts on Christmas be presents, food and warmth? 

Sherlock distinctly remembered being four and with Mycroft’s help making a series of elaborate traps to catch Santa Claus. Mycroft had later made it look like Santa had set them all off the left the presents and escaped without being caught. The next year he hadn’t believed in Santa citing that it was impossible for him to travel to every house in the world to leave presents.

And mummy had always gotten the best presents for Mycroft and Sherlock; she had thought it out carefully, no expense spared. Sherlock had been given an entire lab for his use, a converted greenhouse on the grounds one year.

And their father had tried; it had been his father that had given Sherlock his first pirate sword when he was five.

It seemed John didn’t have as fond memories of the time of year that Sherlock did.

Sherlock frowned eyes following the decorations around the restaurant. He would just have to make sure that this year, this Christmas was fun for John, full of good memories.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has an idea or suggestion they want incorporated in this fic could you pm me or leave it in a review, I’ll try to add it if I can. I’ve got a plan but there is room for more chapters and this fic will run through John’s childhood, teenage and adult years until he regains his memories of everything up to the serum part in chapter 1.

(December 2015, John is 5.)

Sherlock thanked the stars for Mrs Hudson, England really would fall if she left Baker Street. She had agreed to look after John for the afternoon and by the time Sherlock had returned she and John had managed to decorate the flat ready for Christmas.

She was a godsend because Sherlock had only registered it was Christmas the day before, and the shops were awful four days before Christmas. Sherlock also thanked his stars for online shopping. He wanted to make this Christmas good for John but going out shopping and fighting the masses was not something he was prepared to do. 

At least this year John didn’t get totally embarrassed by him asking the Santa at the shops for a ‘nice juicy murder’. He may have made a couple of children cry that year too...John had looked seconds from giving him the ‘nice juicy murder’ by killing him personally. But John as a child didn’t have the same problems and Sherlock wasn’t nearly so bored as he had been then.

Also luckily, when Mycroft had taken care of John for the day (it seemed even Mycroft was enthralled by the big pleading wide blue eyes), they had gone shopping to get John’s presents for everyone so nearly everything was sorted.

Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson were all coming around 221B for drinks on Christmas Eve, apparently John had invited them before the serum incident and although Sherlock did not enjoy ‘parties or social gatherings’ he didn’t have a solid enough excuse to avoid or cancel it (read: John and Mrs Hudson talked him into it), so it was going ahead.

Not only that but Mycroft had called in a favour Sherlock owed him and ordered him to attend a new year’s party that Mycroft had to attend to keep an eye on the political climate and to smooth over any disputes that could potentially be catastrophic. Mycroft wanted him to be there to do the legwork in capturing and detaining the ambassador who had a rather large hand in the very illegal very secret sex slave trafficking ring. 

It was unusual for Mycroft to need another set of eyes but apparently between pandering to officials, keeping the country afloat and essentially babysitting Britain’s top influential leaders he was unsure of his capabilities to apprehend the very elusive man.

Greg had also been invited to keep an eye John.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock looked at the assembled boxes in 221C searchingly, he wasn’t quite sure if that was enough presents for a young child. He had hidden them in 221C because it was the one area that John was expressly not allowed, it even had a key code to keep the little blighter out of it. Sherlock didn’t trust that John couldn’t pick locks yet, he was a tricky little boy and who knew how old he was when he first learnt, he was nearly as good as Sherlock at picking locks as an adult.

Sherlock looked from the long tube of wrapping paper, sellotape and scissors to the boxes of presents, he was not wrapping them up.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock called waiting for her to appear. Sure enough seconds later Mrs Hudson entered 221C cautiously, she knew what type of experiments Sherlock conducted, with a slightly admonishing look at calling her down.

“Would you wrap these?” Sherlock asked gesturing to the pile. Martha surveyed the presents with an affronted look turning sharp but warm eyes to Sherlock.

“Not on your life young man! You can wrap your own presents, I am your landlady not you housekeeper or your PA.” Martha said briskly leaving but not before straightening the precariously placed pile of presents or taking away the three mugs empty save for the dregs of tea to wash them up in her kitchen.

Sherlock picked up the roll of wrapping paper speculatively, it couldn’t be too hard to wrap them up, he just couldn’t be bothered to do something so mundane, it was a waste of his intellect.

One hour later Sherlock looked up from his engaging experiment on the discrepancies on the way wrapping paper soaked up blood compared to normal paper only to find the presents hadn’t been magically wrapped while he was absorbed in something much more intriguing.

Sherlock sighed forlornly. 

 

xxx

 

Sherlock had barely greeted Molly and Greg before dragging Greg down to 221C and gesturing towards the presents and wrapping paper.

Greg thought it was funny. But he found it even more amusing when Sherlock had sellotape in his hair and had a poorly wrapped gift sitting in front of him. Greg’s amusement didn’t desist even though Sherlock improved drastically with each present; he was a quick study after all.

“You know kids tend to enjoy playing with the wrapping paper just as much as the actual presents.” Greg remarked as he painstakingly smoothed down the edge of a piece of sellotape on a small box he was wrapping. Sherlock sniffed.

“I’m just saying as a kid John might not be as appreciative of the expensive presents as you would expect.” Greg continued, picking up yet another box of lego. Sherlock had gone completely overboard, there was everything a kid would want for Christmas, from board games to art equipment to soft cuddly toys. There was even a mobile phone!

Greg shook his head with an exasperatedly fond look on his face, Sherlock was spoiling John terribly. It was sweet. Greg would worry about the child growing up spoilt if he didn’t know how utterly modest and caring John was by nature.

It didn’t stop him from being a cheeky little bugger though.

Something that was proved when Sherlock and Greg eventually reappeared back upstairs only to find John bouncing off the walls from the amount of sugar he had consumed, John, it seemed, adored Mrs Hudson’s cookies.

Sherlock groaned a fond smile twisting up the corners of his lips even as he despaired at the thought of actually putting John to bed that night.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock came to abruptly, he kept very still wondering why, when he was in his own bed he had woken up with the disturbing feeling that someone was looking at him. Carefully he cracked his eyes open a little, not enough to inform whoever was watching him that he was awake but wide enough so he could see blurry outlines.

Sherlock resisted the urge to leap backwards in shock as his gaze met the bright blue eyes mere centimetres from his face. Sherlock relaxed, it was only John then.

“Why are you watching me?” Sherlock asked voice muffled by his quilt and eyes still resolutely shut. He was not a morning person which even this little John knew. In fact most days John would go down to Mrs Hudson’s and scrounge breakfast from her then come back up to 221B and play with his toys until Sherlock decided to join the land of the living and down two cups of scalding hot coffee; black two sugars.

Sherlock could hear John jump in surprise that Sherlock was awake and knew he was there, he smiled into the quilt.

That smile didn’t last long as John took his being awake as a sign that he could jump onto Sherlock and bounce around.

“Oof.” Sherlock huffed the air whooshing out of his lungs as the cheeky blond haired boy scrambled over his chest sitting on his stomach and bouncing. Sherlock sighed, how was it that children seemed to know instinctively where to tread or lean that was the most painful for the adult completely unaware of said fact?

“Shlock its Christmas! An’ there’s prezzies! I gots some for you an’ Mrs Hudson!” John said wriggling around in excitement. Sherlock frowned why hadn’t the child mentioned his own hoard of gifts (they didn’t all fit under the awful Christmas tree so they the rest were stacked on the coffee table, the desk and both his and John’s chairs) complete with an overly large sock hanging from the mantel piece that Mrs Hudson had assured him was essential for the boy?

Sherlock reached out grabbing John as the boy squealed and tickling his sides grinning in amusement as John started nearly shrieking his giggles filling the room.

Minutes later they both made it to the living room, John still flushed from laughing so hard and now clad in an overly large blanket completely smothering his small frame and Sherlock wearing one of his dressing gowns.

Sherlock blinked as he came to a conclusion about why John hadn’t mentioned the gifts that were for him, he didn’t know they were for him.

Sherlock plucked the stocking, complete with tacky novelty reindeer and all, and turned holding it aloft with a raised eyebrow.

“Now who could this be for?” Sherlock stated not looking at John as he ostensibly read the small label sticking out of the overly extravagant sock.

“It says John on the tag. It must be for you.” Sherlock said passing over the stocking to John’s confused but gleeful expression.

“You sure?” John asked doubtfully, the stocking was filled to the brim with small wrapped presents. Sherlock nodded and this was all the confirmation John needed before he was delving delightedly into it.

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop (the older John’s laptop) and turned it on while sneaking glances at the thoroughly absorbed boy who cooed with growing enthusiasm as each gift was revealed. Soon John was surrounded by a collection of small presents and an alarming amount of wrapping paper. John seemed unconcerned by the mess as he methodically devoured the chocolate coins he had unwrapped.

Sherlock cleared away the worst of the rubbish scrunching up the wrapping paper and shoving it into the bin.

It was odd being the only adult in 221B, he now had to clean up after himself and a child (Mrs Hudson did most of the tidying but Sherlock still had to do far more than the usual nothing when John was an adult) and it was not something he particularly enjoyed. John no longer picked up all the dirty mugs that tended to litter the flat; he no longer tidied when the flat got just a little too messy.

Sherlock had hired a cleaner to clean the bathroom, kitchen and bedrooms properly...the cleaner had refused to come back despite the hefty tip.

Also as well as the fact Sherlock had to actually maintain the flat he also had to keep it relatively child friendly. This meant his experiments had to move downstairs. Mycroft had released his trust fund (finally) so Sherlock could afford to rent out 221B and 221C without help, John couldn’t exactly pay as a child now could he. He had to keep things like knives, guns, (harpoons), sharp things away from grabby hands.

It was different and while Sherlock longed for the time when his friend was an adult again there were moments where he thought he might actually miss the child John version when he grew up. It was an odd unsettling feeling and Sherlock promptly squashed it down or soothed the slight wistfulness by snapping lots of pictures of whatever ridiculous thing John was getting up to then.

Sherlock was not looking forward to the months John would spend as a teenager though, especially not when he remembered his own rebellious teenage years.

Sherlock handed John a napkin to wipe the chocolate off his face.

“There’s some cereal in the cupboard. Get yourself breakfast then you can open your presents.” Sherlock said gesturing to the piles of presents wrapped in varying degrees of neatness. John’s eyes widened comically.

“There’s more?!” John said eyes round. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“All the ones wrapped in the hideous wrapping paper with horridly inaccurate reindeer on are yours.” Sherlock sniffed in disdain for the novelty wrapping paper his lips twitching at the corners as he surveyed John.

John leapt to his feet tearing into the kitchen to grab his breakfast so he could unwrap the rest of his presents.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.
> 
> Warnings: um...little bits taken from ACD’s Sherlock-very minor mentions of The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.

(January 2016, John is five)

 

John scowled as Sherlock dressed him in a suit, fitted to small his frame two days before. He didn’t want to wear a suit and he didn’t want to go to Mycoff’s boring party.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he buttoned up the smart blue shirt Mycroft had gotten for John along with the tailored suit that was already getting slightly too short around the leg area. He did not particularly want to attend the party later either but if he started whining or flopping on the sofa like usual John would be even more difficult to deal with than he was being currently.

And Sherlock had zero patience with a stroppy child. He had already reduced John to tears the day before by shouting at him, not one of his proudest moments and Sherlock was once again surprised by John’s capacity for forgiveness...or maybe it was the automatic forgiveness of a child who had already forgotten about the event...

Mycroft had stolen John for a couple of hours two days before and bribed him with enough ice cream and a trip to the park that John managed to stay still for enough time for the tailor to pin a child’s suit to his small frame (he had not been nearly so complacent for Sherlock later on when he hit the sugar high). Mycroft had then smugly dumped the hyperactive little boy back into Sherlock’s care with a smirk. 

Sherlock didn’t care if his reply was childish, he did learn some childish habits off of his flatmate and John stuck his tongue out at people too. Plus Mycroft’s disdain for the childish act was worth the loss in dignity, plus John giggled.

John had not been best pleased when he learnt that he did have to actually wear the suit again and no, he wasn’t allowed to take it off for hours, until the party had finished.

Sherlock had been utterly perplexed. Why would John have a suit fitted to his frame especially then not be expected to wear it? Even as a child John shouldn’t have been as obtuse as to not realise this. 

But then John could miss the blindingly obvious at times, which was odd seeing as he usually noticed the blinding obvious which in turn made Sherlock notice it and had more than once provided the solution to the case he needed.

John was still pouting about the suit five minutes before they had to leave for the New Years Party, he had attempted to remove his tie six times, his jacket two and his trousers three times in the last half an hour. He hadn’t even perked up when Sherlock informed him that Greg was also coming tonight, also with a suit courtesy of Mycroft, apparently the suits Greg owned weren’t quite up to par.

John sulkily jumped into the cab the fourth time Sherlock asked him (read: pleaded). Sherlock was going to have to commit fratricide, it was Mycroft’s fault he had descended to bribe John by promising him he would watch him play football...urgh. John had been savvy enough to wrangle out a promise that Sherlock would watch for the entire half an hour not the five minutes he had been intending.

This was the first time Sherlock was having a real problem with John, despite John’s natural cheekiness he was an easy going child, no trouble at all but now, now John was choosing to act up.

Sherlock was torn between annoyance, he had to deal with the tricky child after all, and glee, a stroppy child could destroy Mycroft’s evening, especially since children weren’t really supposed to be attending, one or two always did but they were always very well behaved (and a lot older than John). 

It was the sort of party or do, that very high up Politian’s were attending, a member of the royal family attended sometimes, very influential ambassadors. And Mycroft, who knew everyone there and pulled the strings behind nearly all of the major events, laws and well, anything of importance to do with the state. Sherlock had been very accurate in calling him the ‘British Government, Secret Service etc.’ when describing him to John.

But Mycroft was not omniscient despite popular belief which was why Sherlock was attending tonight. Plus Mycroft so despised leg work.

Greg was there for back up if really necessary but his main focus would be keeping an eye on John while Sherlock was on the case, Sherlock tended to forget about things when on a case and it was highly likely little John would be forgotten about as he approached a lead on the case.

Greg stood in a corner his untouched glass of wine held in one hand and his other occupied in holding John by the hand. He had been mostly ignored by the people at the party something Greg was a little thankful for if he was honest. A lot of the people here seemed to disdain him for the simple fact that they didn’t know who he was, and that for them said it all, if they didn’t know who he was then he wasn’t worth getting known.

Greg had an alias for this do seeing as DI of Scotland Yard didn’t quite cut it or get him an invite here but he hoped not to use it.

John hopped from one foot to the other and back again to keep himself entertained, the party was boring, with lots of boring people with weird laughs. John just wanted to go back to Baker Street and play with some of his new toys that he got for Christmas.

Greg inwardly frowned as a man came up to him dressed in an immaculately tailored tuxedo inlaid with red silk that looked like it cost more than Greg’s yearly pay check, great he was actually going to have to actually speak to someone.

John looked up as the grip on his hand loosened a fraction. With a crafty look and a little bit of wiggling John managed to free his hand from Greg’s loose grip and he wandered off in search of Sherlock.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock was not having a particularly good time.

It had been depressingly easy to apprehend the man, Mycroft really hadn’t needed his help in the least and Sherlock suspected that Mycroft hadn’t called him here for that at all but as a revenge for...for...something. Sherlock lost count of the many things he could have done to aggravate his brother this time.

Maybe convincing John it was alright to draw on the walls of Mycroft’s office when they were waiting for him had not been the best plan. Mycroft’s face though had been hilarious as he looked at the drawings of a dog John had drawn on the walls of his office.

He should have done something much subtler that Mycroft couldn’t trace back to him.

It would have been exceedingly less dull to just be at Baker Street with John right now. Because really, John was fascinating to study as a child. 

Children’s logic processes tended to defy well, logic, and it was a game for Sherlock to try and guess why John’s thoughts had switched track so abruptly onto something seemingly irrelevant. 

He would never had realised John linked butter with Childrens TV shows (butter with toast=breakfast, breakfast=cartoons) if John’s eyes hadn’t unconsciously flickered towards the butter dish, empty of fingers since John had the childlike peculiarity to occasionally stick the oddest (and least sanitary) things in his mouth. It was revolting.

Sherlock speculated that it might have been John’s subtle way of getting him to clear up his experiments before dismissing the notion as highly improbable. Adult John was probably that clever but child John had was not so, also adult John would emphatically not put random things in his mouth.

Sherlock sighed eyeing the guests of the party (sorry: eyeing the guests of the soiree) with a disdain for the wealthy that decided to live off their trust fund and their parents (or grandparents or long deceased ancestors) reputation.

It was actually quite sickening how lazy people could be with using their minds.

At least people like John (not geniuses in their own right) used their brains properly, not efficiently or as smooth a running machine as Sherlock’s, but John used his brains everyday in his job as a doctor (as a soldier he had to as well, he had to find an instant solution against great odds) meant he was constantly thinking when on the job. Even Lestrade...Sherlock halted his mental processes there, sickened that he was actually bored enough to start singing John and Lestrade’s praises.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft in horror, this function was slowing down his thought processes, he could feel his brain power receding slightly.

That was when the first screams started and in the ensuing chaos Sherlock completely forgot (then deleted) his irrational panic. He vowed never to go to one of Mycroft’s ‘parties’ again though. John agreed, emphatically.

 

xxx

 

Greg jerked out of (the surprisingly enthralling) conversation when he heard a scream.

He made his way towards the commotion abruptly, before stopping in horror.

Where on earth was John?!

Greg looked around the immediate area before his brain switched into gear.

In such a high end soiree like this there was far too much security for a little boy to sneak out, this meant that John was still in the large (and impressive) ballroom. So for the moment John was safe.

Greg headed towards the scream, he was a police officer and while he would much prefer to have John safe by his side but he at least knew the boy was nearby so could help sort out the commotion first before tracking down the boy.

Greg frowned when he saw that no one was harmed and only a distressed looking woman was off to the side clutching at her throat, tears streaking down her cheeks. Greg quickly went over to the woman when he saw Sherlock was bearing down on them. Sherlock talking to someone distressed was not a good idea; the police had had to bill several victims therapy trips after Sherlock had spoken to them.

“Excuse me miss, Detective Inspector Lestrade, but what seems to be the problem?” Greg asked flashing his badge. The woman sniffed but held her composure wiping away the tears with a frustrated gesture.

“My, you did get here quickly! I should not have screamed, really you must think me silly. It’s just I realised my necklace had been stolen.” The woman said ignoring the few gasps that came from the crowd now surrounding them. Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, people reacted to the strangest of things, he thought someone was being stabbed not realised something was simply missing.

“And you’re sure it was stolen, you didn’t just misplace it?” Greg asked showing none of his impatience.

“I know I reacted a little foolishly but I am quite sure it was stolen. I never take it off; it was a gift from my daughter you see, before she went off to join the air force.” The woman explained hands shaking slightly. Greg felt himself thaw slightly in response to the woman’s obvious attachment to her daughter.

“Your daughter eloped to America with the married man she’s having an affair with, who is also, consequently your best friends husband. She never joined the air force.” Sherlock stated. Greg closed his eyes in exasperation before telling the woman to ignore Sherlock, he was just joking.

“Well, what does it look like?” Greg asked in a slightly warmer tone.

“It’s well, rather large. It’s a locket hung on a white gold fine chain. The body of the locket is an exquisite pattern of sapphires and diamonds, an engraving on the back in French and it holds a picture of my late husband, my daughter and I.” The woman explained stilling her hands.

Greg nodded writing down the distinguishing features in his notebook he typically carried around. Sherlock who had been listening, obviously Greg had been asking the correct questions for once-if at a little slower pace than Sherlock liked.

Sherlock glanced around the room swiftly before exclaiming in a triumphant sound as he homed into one man.

“Alcoholic.” Greg heard Sherlock mutter under his breath as he walked towards the man, perhaps stalked was a better word for it. Mycroft rolled his eyes, couldn’t his brother at least try to keep his observations under closed mouth until the information was necessary or could at least be used a blackmail, Sherlock had little to no subtlety.

The man watched Sherlock approach with a confused look even as his eyes darted towards the exits and his cheeks flushed unbecomingly for his portly face and carriage. 

“Who did you give it to?” Sherlock snapped eyeing the man’s facial features searchingly.

“Wait a minute! This man took stole the locket?!” Greg asked flummoxed. Both Sherlock and Mycroft rolled their eyes this time.

“Yes inspector isn’t it obvious? Just look at the state of his tie and his shoes!” Sherlock exclaimed impatiently. Greg looked stifling a sigh. He couldn’t see at all what the Consulting Detective meant. The man’s tie looked neat and normal and the shoes were polished brightly.

Sherlock huffed as he almost felt Greg’s incomprehension.

“The question is not who stole it, but who he gave it to and where they are now!”

Sherlock examined the silent crowd of people with his piercing grey eyes. Greg didn’t blame the few people who stepped back in slight alarm; Sherlock could be fearsome when he chose.

Greg resisted the urge to flinch when Sherlock turned his seemingly all seeing gaze to him with an abrupt movement.

“Where is John?” Sherlock snapped looking past Greg as if John was just hiding behind him.

Greg opened and shut his mouth not sure how to respond, he didn’t even know when John had left his side. Sherlock looked positively murderous and he barely noticed as more people stepped away from him in quiet alarm whispering to each other and themselves over the mystery of the stolen locket.

Greg ignored the person he felt sidle up to him, well, until a high piping voice spoke to Sherlock halting his rage.

“I was thirsty.” John said holding up a glass filled with what looked to be water. “Greg let me get a drink Shlock, I don’t like adult drinks.” John said with an innocent blink, talking about the wine most people were drinking. Greg inwardly laughed. That cheeky monster, John had just got both him and Greg out of trouble; John knew he wasn’t supposed to leave Greg’s side after all.

Sherlock accepted the explanation sulkily sending Greg an indignant glare for letting John out of his sight.

“What you doing?” John asked curiously, big blue eyes blinking up at them.

“Looking for this nice woman’s necklace.” Greg explained as Sherlock was back to scanning the room. John nodded.

“The big shiny blue one. The one the man put in the turkey.” John stated taking another sip from his drink. Sherlock blinked looking at John with wide eyes.

“Of course! The waiters!” Sherlock exclaimed bounding into action and running out of the room. Greg frowned and shrugged turning to John.

“You weren’t supposed to leave my side.” Greg admonished sternly. John blinked.

“What Shlock don’t know won’t hurt.” Was John’s philosophical response. Greg huffed a laugh. John’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“He doesn’t know ‘bout this like he doesn’t know ‘bout the skull.” John said with a smug grin. Greg blinked once again, Sherlock had complained that the flats skull had gone missing and he was sure John had hidden it; he just couldn’t find it, anywhere.

“Where on earth did you put the skull, you cheeky monkey?” Greg asked picking John up and placing him on his hip.

John was almost fiercely independent and hated being carried but when he was tired he was always a little more...compliant. 

John just blinked at Greg’s query as if saying ‘who me? I haven’t hidden anything.’ John was certainly a devious child; Greg couldn’t help but wonder if John was this sneaky and clever as a child in his first life or if the adult persona was somehow bleeding through.

They waited, reassuring the woman: ‘please call me Clarissa’ that Sherlock was the best man for the case.

It was only a few minutes later that Sherlock returned holding up a plucked and ready to be cooked turkey of all things, his hand down its throat.

Greg blinked, semi used to Sherlock doing odd things to prove a case. He blinked again; sure his mouth was gaping, when Sherlock pulled his arm out brandishing a locket matching the description Clarissa had given.

Sherlock ignored Clarissa’s profuse thanks in favour of turning to John with an excited glint in his eyes.

“How did you know the locket was in the turkey? Was it the speck of red carpet from the waiters halls, a different fibre to the one in here? The man’s shoelace? The slight grease stain on his sleeve? The speck of shoe polish not quite washed off his wrist? Or was it the fact the waiter is obviously new to the job and hasn’t worked in this profession before? Maybe the slight scuffs indicating someone tripped by the door? Or the callous on his left thumb? Or was it because the man was obviously not equipped for a struggle or flight? How did you work out the locket was hidden by the waiter in the turkey, talk me through your deductive reasoning. You’re even better at observation and deductions than you were as an adult.” Sherlock blathered on looking extremely excited and pleased (as well as insufferably smug) that John had apparently used his methods to weed out the truth.

John blinked, eyes glazing a little at Sherlock’s mass of observations. Greg wasn’t sure how on earth a man’s shoelaces indicated he had hidden a piece of jewellery in a bird but then he wasn’t Sherlock. Greg glanced at the boy semi eager to hear how he had worked it out too.

Greg glanced at the water John held with a sneaking suspicion. Greg grinned delightedly; he couldn’t wait for John to tell Sherlock how he had figured it out, the Consulting Detective’s expression was sure to be something. 

“When one of the nice people was getting me water I saw another one shove the sparkly necklace in the dead birdy.” John explained.

Greg laughed uproariously at Sherlock’s stunned expression.

Greg swore he saw Mycroft’s lips twitch upwards into a smile of amusement too.

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink. Unwittingly a warm smile crossed his face and Sherlock took John from Greg’s arms and put him on his own hip, the smile not leaving his face.

“You menace.” Sherlock said tapping John on the nose. John just grinned impishly.

“No one solves problems same as you Shlock.” John said, appeasing the slight disappointment that had appeared when Sherlock realised John had not deducted the answer but actually saw it happen.

“’Cept maybe Mycoff.” John continued just as Sherlock was carrying him out.

Greg dissolved into unmanly giggles, Sherlock’s face!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xxx
> 
>  
> 
> Updates will be irregular, sorry about that, but I do have a plan (hopefully).
> 
> If anyone has any suggestions for future chapters please contact me with it, I will try to incorporate it into the fic.
> 
> Thank you.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock Series 1+2.
> 
> Warning: Mentions of abuse, child abuse, murder, spousal abuse/murder, drugs, alcoholism...um...
> 
>  
> 
> Just to make it clear I have this story posted on both Fanfiction.net, under the title Back to the Beginning and Archive of our own, under the title Finger Painting, sorry for any confusion.

(February/March 2016, John is six.)

John watched with wide round eyes as the adults descended into a heated argument.

Greg was fielding an argument with Sally and Sherlock while Sally and Anderson were arguing with each other and Sherlock, while Sherlock was arguing with them all and occasionally even insulting the general population.

The other police had left; they didn’t want to crowd the child, the potentially traumatised child. Sherlock wanted to speak to her to see if she saw anything. Sally, Greg, Sherlock and Anderson were arguing over the best way to tackle the problem completely ignoring both John and not noticing the nearly hyperventilating girl in the corner who was huddled into herself so as to not attract attention.

John looked at the girl carefully, she had bruises splotched all over her, especially on her arms and neck which could be seen from the inadequate t-shirt and skirt she wore and she watched the adults with poorly hidden terror shrinking into the wall and flinching with every raised voice. She looked only a little older than John’s six years.

John glanced at the adults then back to the girl. Sherlock had told him not to come into the house and to stay with one of the police men outside but John had slipped past the police and entered the house after he heard raised voices. It hadn’t been hard; John could even slip past Sherlock when he really tried.

John took another fleeting glance towards the adults; they would be really cross if they caught him in the crime scene but the girl looked really upset. John stood there torn with indecision. He glanced at the girl noting the tear tracks. John squared his small shoulders, he didn’t care how cross the adults would be, the girl was crying! (And about to run and hide somewhere where John was sure the adults wouldn’t fit.)

John silently slipped over to the girl without Sherlock, Greg, Anderson or Sally noticing.

 

Sherlock scowled at Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade. He was hardly going to torment the girl! He only wanted to ask a couple of questions, surely having looked after John for months meant he wasn’t too bad at dealing with children?

Sherlock took a quick glance at the girl to make sure she hadn’t slipped away and paused staring. His inattention and silence caught Donovan’s, Anderson’s and Lestrade’s notice too, eventually, and they too turned to look at what he was staring at.

John was sitting with the girl their backs to the wall and in line so they could see all the available exits talking to her calmly and carefully. The girl seemed to be slightly calmer, no longer so tense and ready to bolt although her eyes flickered to the adults now and then. Greg, Sally and Anderson winced, they hadn’t realised the girl was in the same room as them when they were arguing!

Sherlock, Sally, Daniel and Greg couldn’t hear what was being said in Sadie and John’s hushed conversation but whatever it was seemed to be doing Sadie a world of good, she had even smiled! Not much of one but it was there.

“We need to get her to tell us who hurt her.” Greg said quietly, judging by John’s quick glance up not quietly enough. Sherlock eyed John’s expression before turning to Sally.

“Donovan, get your notepad out and a pen now, get ready to write down anything she tells John.” Sherlock ordered only loud enough for Daniel, Greg and Sally to hear him. Sally turned a questioning look Sherlock’s way but Greg just fiddled for his own notepad and pen. 

Suddenly John’s and Sadie’s conversation reached a volume that while still subdued was loud enough that the adults could hear as well. Sherlock, Sally, Greg and Daniel froze, faces fixed with slight horror before melting into the stoic features a cop on a nasty case had to resort to.

John rolled up his sleeve baring an odd burn mark. “I gots this by ‘accidently’ knocking over the frying pan when mum was cooking.” John rolled his eyes and the girl giggled.

“What really happened then?” She asked looking interested.

“Dad got drunk again and thought I’d nicked his cigarettes so he burnt me with his lighter. It was actually Harry who’d taken them; she sold them for nasty beer.” John explained calmly turning gently curious eyes to Sadie.

“Do you have any scars?” John asked innocently apart from the knowing gaze and slight glint in his eyes that spoke of him pulling a prank or deceiving someone. Sadie nodded swallowing before showing him a small mark on her hip.

“I got this from falling off my bike. I had to have five stitches. It was really ‘cause mum didn’t like me gettin’ mud on the carpet, she had a knife in her hand.” Sadie explained. Greg wrote down what she and John said face stony.

John showed a faded scar on his shoulder. “I gots this from a broken beer bottle, dad got pissed again, he was alright when he didn’t drink.” John commented.

Sadie held out her leg rolling down her socks slightly. “I got this one ‘cause mum was high an’ I interrupted her and her boyfriend, he didn’t like me interuptin’ neither.”

Sally and Greg wrote down everything they could as John and Sadie continued. Greg, Sally and Daniel’s faces were fixed carefully blank. Sherlock however while his features were fixed and carefully blank there was no missing the anger, the fury practically spitting from his eyes.

When Sadie and John were finished silence filled the room and Sadie glanced nervously at the adults having remembered they were in the room too. John took her hand and pulled her up gently not letting her hand go much to Sadie’s evident relief.

“These are the police, they’ll get you somewhere away from your mum and she’ll never find you again.” John reassured her. Sadie nodded sending a weak smile in John’s direction as John led her outside. “Come on; let’s play in the park across the road for a few minutes until they’re ready.” 

Once the children had left the room Greg turned to Sherlock. “That bugger. John’s dammed smart.” Greg breathed out scrubbing his face with the hand holding a pen. Normally it took a long while and was a slow painful process to get abused kids to open up about the abuse and they needed the information to put the abusers in jail. John had just made their job a hell of a lot easier, Greg just wished he hadn’t have been able to do so like that, using actual past memories.

Sally looked slightly shaken face paler. Daniel scrubbed his face rubbing his eyes wearily much in the same way as Greg.

Sherlock twitched drawing out his phone and for once calling someone instead of texting. 

“...Mycroft I need information on John’s father, the whole family and who he grew up with.” There was a pause and then...“Please.” Sherlock spoke almost too softly for them to hear but Sally’s eyebrows rose and Greg and Daniel froze shock covering their faces.

Sherlock finished the call putting his phone in his pocket with a curt efficiency that meant he was containing and controlling his anger so he didn’t inadvertently scare John.

“Did you know?” Sally asked Sherlock numbly.

“Know what?” Sherlock snapped not even attempting to control his simmering rage or modulate his voice. Sally took a deep breath, Sherlock could certainly be intimidating when he was angry but she had dealt with people far more likely to attack her than Sherlock whom she had never really seen actually assault someone who hadn’t attacked him or John or Mrs Hudson first.

“Did you know about John and...” Sally trailed off, she was alright dealing with crime scenes because more often than not the victim was already dead and they just had to find the perpetrator, serial killers were rare. And it may sound callous but Sally far preferred to work to bring down a killer rather than finding a kidnapping victim or actually dealing with the traumatised people. She could but she didn’t like dealing with the recently bereaved or those vulnerable, Sally personally didn’t think she had the right maternal or soothing air to her to inspire confidence or to put the victim at ease. 

It irked her that Sherlock actually could act like he cared so easily, he could pretend to put the victim at ease yet he rarely did so because it would ‘waste his time’ when harsher tactics worked faster and were much more informative. The harsher tactics weren’t pleasant for the people involved though.

Sherlock twitched mouth pursing unhappily. 

“I should have. I was blind to what was in front of me. I knew his father had been in prison for the murder of his wife, John’s mother, and that John witnessed it but I...There wasn’t much in John’s behaviour to suggest abuse...he doesn’t flinch at sudden movements, doesn’t cower- in fact he matches people when they get angry, usually, with calm and collected anger, he is only as wary of others anger as one might expect from a normal child, he did hint towards a rather substandard Christmas, he had never celebrated it properly before...” Sherlock trailed off. “I thought it was more neglect, damaging enough as that is it seems there was more to it. Harry was oddly cagey about their youth too.” Sherlock actually looked lost, as though the ground had been shaken from under his feet.

“It isn’t always easy to notice, especially from someone you care about.” Sally said painfully, fully aware of the similarities between this situation and the one with her cousin, she had only been sixteen when her uncle was arrested for abuse and before then Sally had had no idea her cousin had suffered. 

Sherlock looked at her and she braced herself for one of his striking deductions that hit far too close to home to be comfortable. But Sherlock only nodded at her, in slight thanks for her comment, he didn’t cut her to the quick with some carefully placed cutting words (it may have been the truth but that just made it all the more cutting).

Sally looked at Sherlock, she might have thought he was just too shocked by the recent revelations before but now...now, she knew Sherlock had held back his instinctive response in respect for personal boundaries. It really opened her eyes in that one singular moment to the effect John Watson, by just being, had had on Sherlock.

Once a upon a time Sherlock would have sprouted forth his deductions just to vent a little of his anger, just to make someone else feel just as bad as he did but he hadn’t this time, and a few times in the past as well.

Sure occasionally he slipped when utterly focused on a particularly clever crime but since John and he had moved into the same flat Sherlock had...not warmed but certainly gained an insight into human thoughts and feelings that he had been conspicuously lacking before.

(With little John it was even more obvious than usual because Sherlock had to be more obvious in his gestures, adult John may be able to translate Sherlock’s subtle gestures but a child, they needed more obvious hints.)

And Sally wondered to herself that Sherlock actually didn’t mind the change, or at least tolerated it in exchange for John Watson’s company. It may have made him ‘weaker’, Sally personally didn’t think strong friendships made anyone weaker, but Sherlock accepted the changes to his personality because it came in a package deal with John.

She had doubted the depth of care Sherlock could show anyone else, let alone seemingly ordinary John Watson, but she couldn’t doubt that despite how sometimes rude and demanding he was that Sherlock in his own way cared for John like a friend, best friends, closer than brothers could be at times.

And the more she saw of Sherlock the more she saw their dynamic and the more she saw of John. Seemingly simple John, clever amongst the masses certainly but not bright compared the almost blinding light of Sherlock’s intellect, the doctor and the soldier. The strange dichotomy that John lived by. John didn’t like mayhem, death and hurt but he thrived in situations where he was needed both as a doctor and as a soldier. This was fair enough, Sally supposed, seeing as he was a great help in those situations and had trained as both before.

But the seemingly simple man was a mass of contradictions, he was more complicated to unpick than Sherlock Holmes who at heart had very simple reasons for his actions, just nobody (apart from John and Mycroft) ever worked them out.

Sherlock sighed as he watched John and Sadie playing on the swings, both rather serious children laughing and playing about with a childish glee showing no hints to the trauma they had both suffered.

It didn’t really change anything, John’s abuse, but it did make Sherlock respect the man just a little bit more (and he respected John more than anyone).

Not for the first time Sherlock wished John was an adult again and would make an absent quip, just so Sherlock knew everything was back to normal.

He might find little John fascinating, it was odd knowing how the man would turn out and yet seeing the boy he had been, but he missed his best friend, he missed John.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Spoilers for BBC Sherlock series 1+2.
> 
> Prompted by 1butterfly_grl1 who suggested ‘John may be a bit reluctant to take his bath one night’.

Prompted by 1butterfly_grl1 who suggested ‘John may be a bit reluctant to take his bath one night’. 

xxx

(April/May 2016, John is 7.)

xxx

Sherlock scowled at John’s beaming face with little ferocity. John knew Sherlock wasn’t being very serious with his scowly face so John just smiled even more. Sherlock’s lips twitched at that.

“John ‘scowly’ isn’t a word.” Sherlock admonished, correcting John’s grammar. John’s eyes widened comically.

“How did you know what I was thinking?” John asked staring at Sherlock with abject awe and no little consternation. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It was obvious. You used that made up word just a few minutes ago.” Sherlock said not mentioning that he was just admonishing John for his use of the word from earlier, although he had suspected John was calling his face ‘scowly’ in his own mind, John’s cheeky smile was an indication. At times John could be such an open book.

Sherlock fiddled with his phone while John painstakingly tied up the shoelaces of his trainers. 

Sherlock was glad John had (finally) learnt how to do them up. To be fair though Sherlock hadn’t exactly been patient when teaching John to tie his shoes and he was sure John just hadn’t listened when Sherlock showed him how to do it interjecting with various statements of ‘it resembles the London underground near Piccadilly if you turn you head’ and ‘even idiots like Anderson can tie their shoelaces!’. Sherlock didn’t really blame John for ignoring him and asking Mrs Hudson to show him how to do it later on, his conversation was above the comprehension of most adults and John was a child.

It seemed John in his first childhood hadn’t worn laces until he was a teenager; he had had Velcro shoes so he couldn’t even fall back on his memories for guidance.

The Velcro irritated Sherlock on principal, why make children more infantile?-so he refused to get John shoes other than lace ups.

Greg had joked about getting John Velcro trainers for Christmas...Sherlock had not been amused.

John had received quite a few vouchers for children’s clothing for Christmas seeing as he outgrew his every month/two months.

John didn’t care much for the slips of paper, Sherlock scowled on principal (they were from Mycroft) but kept them, why not drain his brothers finances? John much preferred the mittens and scarf from Mrs Hudson that she had knitted and the mittens were tied with string that went through his coat so he couldn’t lose them.

Sherlock had been grateful for that seeing as adult John lost any gloves he brought about a week after purchase, every single time.

John clutched the beloved football Greg had given him for Christmas to his chest, almost bouncing with excitement.

John tended to draw people, as both an adult and a child, and as such when John went to the park he always found lots of children to play with, enough to have a football match with and several games.

Sherlock had found it odd that John could gather people to him without even trying even as a child. Sherlock himself drew people but they always backed away after he informed them of his observations. (Molly, Stamford, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John being the exceptions.) Mycroft didn’t count.

Sherlock hadn’t minded his rather isolated childhood but it made him wonder when he watched John play with a crowd of children he didn’t even know, it was curious...

Sherlock stood sulkily at the sidelines watching as John whooped with glee chasing the football and ignoring the most basic of rules. Sherlock had looked up the rules for football after John had expressed a wish to play it and John was not keeping to them, he was running round the entire pitch, occasionally filling in a goal keeper, he wasn’t sticking a single role.

Sherlock didn’t know whether to scold John for not specifying, John didn’t want to play football he wanted to kick a ball around and run screaming after it surrounded by other screaming children with little to no intelligence, or if he wanted to be glad John didn’t stick to the rules even when playing an infantile game.

“This is rather domestic of you, brother dearest.” A slow drawling voice commented from behind. Sherlock closed his eyes and his nostrils flared at Mycroft’s very presence and slightly condescending tone of voice.

Sherlock turned noting Mycroft’s distaste of the dew wet grass that surrounded him and the shudder Mycroft gave when he noticed John had incredibly muddy knees and hems of his trousers as well as a streak of mud across his cheek.

Sherlock stifled a smirk, he had deliberately said the park as the place for Mycroft to meet them to pick John up as he knew Mycroft despised dirt of any kind and did not look favourably on what he termed ‘legwork’.

Which was odd considering the fact that Mycroft engaged in plenty of ‘legwork’ just trying to keep tabs on Sherlock.

Meeting Mycroft in the Park was part of Sherlock’s long and petty revenge for getting him to go to that atrocious party thing.

Sherlock smirked at the mud that covered John, he had to go to visit a crime scene for an hour or two, it unfortunately didn’t look to be a hard case, so Mycroft was looking after John for an hour or two, if the case took longer he was going to drop John off with Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock said swift goodbyes to John (he had learnt that children tended to get upset fast if you just upped and left without saying goodbye) and made his way to Lestrade.

Mycroft waited patiently (well he looked patient at least) at the side careful not to get mud on his pristine shoes or suit.

About twenty minutes after Sherlock had left John ran over looking flushed and carrying his jumper in his arms instead of wearing it. Mycroft looked John over, he looked healthy but shouldn’t the boy at least be wearing more than just a t-shirt and jeans? It wasn’t an overly warm day after all.

“Put your jumper on.” Mycroft ordered, not unkindly-he hardly wanted the boy to freeze after all, but John seemed to take his words the wrong way and employed a childish defence. Mycroft sighed, was his brother a bad influence on the boy?

“Sticking your tongue out at people is considered rude, if you are going to be troublesome at the very least be clever about it, a little more finesse too would be appreciated.” Mycroft admonished holding out John’s coat so the boy could slip his arms into it. John still had his tongue out, floored by Mycroft’s response. 

He hastily pulled it back into his mouth when Mycroft raised an eyebrow imperiously and John silently put his arms through the coat Mycroft was holding.

“Do you require sustenance?” Mycroft asked leading John to the familiar dark tinted windowed car, he had already informed the driver as to the restaurant they were going to go to but people usually preferred it if he pretended to ask their opinion.

John frowned mouthing the word ‘sustenance’.

“Is sustenance food?” John asked after a moment’s thought. 

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes reminding himself that he was dealing with a child and as far as the noisy messy things went John was far superior, he had worked out the correct meaning of Mycroft’s sentence after all and even as an adult could be cannily perceptive when dealing with the irrational annoyance called emotions.

“Sustenance means nourishment, something that essentially supports life, commonly referred to as food, yes.” Mycroft explained ushering John into the car.

John ignored the superfluous words and focused on the fact Mycroft had said he was correct. He nodded agreeably; he was hungry after all the running around and fun he had had.

“No living food though? No fishy eyes and crabs?” John asked suspiciously halting in his efforts to tie his seat belt. Mycroft really did roll his eyes that time.

“No, I do realise your abhorrence to actually seeing the food alive before you eat it. And they were lobsters, not crabs.” Mycroft answered. To be fair to John it had been Mycroft’s lack of foresight that had led to that debacle, he had assumed John would cope with more adult food. He hadn’t made the same mistake again, John tended to like a much more simple palate; apparently most children did.

There would be no upset children today, thank-you-very-much. (Nor outraged waiting staff and cooks.)

Mycroft eyed the mud on John with extreme distaste, he wasn’t going to clean the boy up-that was Sherlock’s job-but he made a mental note to get the car cleaned after John was back with Sherlock.

Thankfully the restaurant Mycroft had chosen had private booths, otherwise Mycroft was sure they would be shown to the door so other diners wouldn’t see a muddy boy at the same restaurant as them. 

It was also far better for Mycroft’s sake of mind to have a private booth, children could be so wearisome.

John had looked around the restaurant suspiciously when they had first entered through the back, much to their waiters amusement.

“So is the restaurant free from spies or monsters?” The waiter asked John jokingly as he handed them the menus. John looked at Mycroft with a cheeky grin.

“No, but I was looking for crab-lobsters.” John said with all seriousness. The waiter grinned.

“Crab-lobsters?”

“No, I thought they was crabs but they was lobsters. And cooks was going to kill the cra-lobsters and cooks them.” John said eyes wide with disgust at the notion.

“They were in a tank John and in a restaurant I highly doubt they were going to kill the lobster in front of you.” Mycroft sighed. “And it is ‘were’ not ‘was’. Correct grammar is essential.”

“Well don’t worry; we don’t have any live lobsters here today.” The waiter said flashing a grin at John. John nodded happily. “So who’s the spy or monster you spotted then?” The waiter asked conspiratorially. John shot a cheeky grin at Mycroft.

“Mycoff’s the spymasters spymaster.” John informed the waiter in a hushed voice that held visible awe.

“Hardly.” Mycroft scoffed.

“But you are! You tells the spies what to do and you lead Mi5 and Shlock says you tell the Secret service what to do, he says you run the government and that’s why the queen knows you.” John insisted adamantly. Mycroft shook his head.

“I hold a minor position in the government.” Mycroft protested disinterestedly.

The waiter, obviously assuming John was just over exaggerating like children were wont to do, shrugged it off and went off to get their drinks.

While John’s words hadn’t shocked Mycroft, Sherlock was always one for the dramatics and Mycroft did indeed have more than a few dealings with all government divisions (even in other countries), John’s tone of voice did.

John as an adult seemed to treat Mycroft like the inevitable, as though you just had to weather the storm until he left, he couldn’t point fault in John’s manners though (most of the time), he always typically offered Mycroft tea and was far more polite to him than his brothers infuriating ways.

John as a child, however, seemed to be slightly in awe of him, which in all honesty was a slightly alarming concept. It was flattering to have a young being look up to you though.

John was thrilled to find there was an actual children’s menu too, he was still suspicious that live food would be brought out for you to choose before they cooked it.

Mycroft eyed John’s slightly wary look with mild amusement. The only thing Mycroft had managed to get right that day was the desert board in the restaurant and he had paid for that later as well because somehow John had managed to get chocolate stains on his jacket not to mention the levels of boundless hyperactivity John had indulged in afterwards.

No, it was safe to say Mycroft had been more careful of his selection of restaurants after that.

John spent his time chattering away to Mycroft who semi listened, it was oddly interesting to see what leaps John would make with the conversation, he could be thoroughly unpredictable in that regard and Mycroft was so rarely shocked or startled by anything.

Somehow, and even Mycroft was a little at loss to how it had happened, Mycroft had ended up explaining (in severely simplified statements) how the government worked, well how it worked to the public not how it worked for him personally.

All in all, it wasn’t a complete waste of time keeping an eye on John for two hours, Mycroft thought to himself as he dropped off John to his scowling brother.

 

xxx

 

Sherlock scowled irritably at Mycroft’s retreating back. It was obvious that John (and Mycroft) had had a good time, why did John have to like his irritating brother?

Not only that but John had been visibly impressed when Sherlock had deigned to explain what Mycroft actually did (amidst many insults), impressed by Mycroft!

Sherlock grimaced, not only that but the case Lestrade had called him on was even more disappointingly obvious than he had expected; of course the grandmother killed the boy!

Sherlock eyed John’s muddy form with distaste.

“Bath. Now.” Sherlock ordered John much to John’s horror; he did not like bath time, at all.

“But I’m not due a bath till tomorrow!” John yelped backing away, he wasn’t that dirty really...

Sherlock snorted and looked at John. John sighed shooting Sherlock a wounded expression before moodily stomping off to the bathroom and running the taps.

Sherlock had to check John was actually taking a bath because John had once tried to trick him by running the water but not actually taking the bath, John had even dunked his head in the sink to make his hair wet as though he had bathed.

It hadn’t worked and John hadn’t been able to get away without a bath...ever, because Sherlock had learnt that until children reached a slightly older age, someone else had to wash their hair for them. Fun.

Sherlock was glad John was now old enough to be trusted not to put up a tantrum over going in the bath, the first few times had been memorable...

 

...Sherlock glared at the young boy glaring defiantly back at him from the corner of the bathroom.

Surely six year olds knew the necessity of cleanliness?

John it seemed had an odd obsession with remaining dirty. John hated baths. He was alright once he got in the water but until then it was a battle to get John in the bath. Even bribing John with sweets and cake didn’t work.

“Get in.” Sherlock ordered pointing at the warm water, he had checked-it wasn’t too warm or too cold.

“No.” John said firmly, shaking his head.

They had stayed at that impasse for a while, the water had cooled significantly.

It was only when Sherlock frustrated, yelled that if John didn’t get in the tub now he was going to confiscate all his toys and stick him in the naughty corner forever, that something changed. John had not liked the last threat and so with an indignant glare had dive bombed into the water.

John was in the tub but Sherlock was soaking, standing to the side and eyeing the water covered floor with a glare usually reserved for Anderson, well before he had been less...Anderson.

John giggled at the sight Sherlock made and Sherlock shook his head smiling involuntarily.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yelled.

“Not your house keeper!” Came the reply. John just giggled harder...

 

...It was less of a chore now to get John in the bath but still a struggle.

John had hidden the skull the last time Sherlock had made him have a bath when he really didn’t want to and Sherlock still hadn’t found it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.
> 
> Peas can be hidden in a variety of places and schooling issue. Prompt from 1butterfly_grl1.

(April/May John is 7.)

Chapter 12.

 

“Sherlock.” John sing-songed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow not taking his attention away from the current slide under his microscope.

“Sheerrlloocckk.” John dragged out the letters in Sherlock’s name whilst sitting on the top steps of the flat and tying his shoelaces. 

“What?” Sherlock snapped irately. John scowled, not at the sharp tone but because Sherlock had forgotten...again.

“You’re supposed to take me to the park.” John sighed crossing his arms.

“Later.” Sherlock said absently, shrugging and swapping the slide. John huffed and kicked the stairs grumpily. John amused himself for a few minutes seeing how hard he could actually kick the wooden steps but when he realised that Sherlock didn’t even notice (and his feet hurt) he stopped.

John stuck his tongue out at Sherlock, who again didn’t notice. He played a game of pulling faces at Sherlock unnoticed.

“Sherlock, can I go to the park now?” John asked ten minutes after he had first posed that question.

“Sure, sure.” Sherlock responded absent minded. John grinned shrugging on his coat and dashing outside.

Sherlock switched his slide again quelling the nagging feeling that he was missing something...

Two minutes later Sherlock jumped up triumphantly holding up a slide.

“John! It was the baker!” Sherlock exclaimed in the same bright tones that always heralded the end of a case. Silence greeted his statement and Sherlock looked around the flat. His eyes darted to the door and he paled, dashing out only just remembering to grab his coat.

 

xxx

 

“So why is the sky blue?” John asked curiously reigning in his smugness at finally going to the park. 

He knew he wasn’t allowed to go to the park by himself so when Sherlock had accidently said he could go John had hurried outside and waited just round the street corner from 221 B. As expected it took less than three minutes before Sherlock was standing in front of him arms crossed and a large scowl on his face.

And because Sherlock was outside they had to go to the park now.

“Plebeian question. Do try to be original.” Sherlock sniffed. Didn’t every child ask that particular question? Couldn’t John at least try to be interesting. John huffed staring around. He would have to ask Greg soon, Greg always answered his questions.

They were nearly at the playground when John asked another question.

“What do worms do? And how do they move?” John asked curiously eyeing a pink coloured worm as it slowly made its way across the ground. Sherlock crouched down with John and they watched the worms slow progress. 

“That is a Lumbricus terrestris or, as it is more widely known as a common earthworm. You see those ring like segments that make up the body of the worm? Well those are called annuli which are covered with lots of tiny hairs that help the worm move and burrow. These little hairs are called setae; they are more like small bristles than hairs. They like to burrow in the earth during the day, normally close to the surface, and then at night they usually feed above ground.

When they burrow they eat the soil, extracting the nutrients from the decomposing organic matter, like roots and leaves. They are necessary for soil health because they transport nutrients through the soil through their waste and they churn up the soil when they move about.” Sherlock explained quietly.

“Sam said that when a worm is cut in half it makes two worms.” John stated. Sherlock shook his head.

“Your football playmates are dull. That is a blatantly incorrect statement.” Sherlock scoffed standing up and shooing John towards the children’s play park inside the park grounds.

“My friends aren’t dull!” John protested with a tolerant eye roll that was far too adult an expression for a seven year old to sport. Sherlock snorted but didn’t deign to disagree out loud any further.

“Twenty minutes only! I have to speak to Lestrade later.” Sherlock informed John already tapping away on his phone. Waiting for a child to finish playing was boring. At least with his phone he could hack Scotland Yard’s files and solve some of the cold cases by simply reading the information off of his phone.

It frustrated Lestrade no end when he did that.

Sherlock had learnt that children’s sense of timing was horrendous and only rarely did that fact actually benefit him.

“John! You’ve had twenty minutes!” Sherlock called impatient to leave.

“What? But it’s only been like five.” John protested already walking over although the reluctance was clear on his face as he jumped down from the monkey bars. Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

“It has been twenty minutes and I despair for your incorrect use of grammar. Your use of the English language is appalling.” Sherlock sniped. It had barely been fifteen minutes but John didn’t need to know that.

John pouted but took Sherlock’s hand without prompting.

Sherlock hopped out of the cab outside of Scotland Yard John still attached to his hand. 

Sherlock had found the best way of keeping track of a young child was to have them beside you at all times. Unfortunately that just wasn’t practical. And Sherlock got frowned at when he glued his and John’s hands together.

It was a safe adhesive! The glue was usually used for piano strings and such, maybe it wasn’t quite so safe had John been silly enough to eat it.

John wasn’t that silly...anymore.

Tying their wrists together was an idea that was discarded before he had even implemented it, the string would have got in the way of everything. A child harness was an acceptable idea but they were sized for toddlers not seven going on eight year olds. 

Sherlock had muttered something about getting a dog lead but even John had glared at him for that particular comment.

“Look there’s Donovan, go and pester her.” Sherlock said pointing John to Donovan’s office where he could see her through the glass, filling in sheets and sheets of paperwork. John, far too happily in Sherlock’s opinion, scampered off to Donovan’s office.

 

xxx

 

Sally nearly jumped up in relief when her office door opened; maybe there was a case so she could put off doing more horrendous paper work? Sally immediately quelled such thoughts; she didn’t want another case because that meant another victim, bad thoughts.

She smiled when she caught sight of the young boy who entered though and without any guilt whatsoever she packed away the unfinished paperwork ready to talk with or play with John.

“Sally, why is the sky blue?” John asked pulling the chair that was opposite Sally’s own chair over to the other side of the desk and right next to Sally’s own.

Sally blinked at the unexpected question before riffling through her draws and finding a glass prism paperweight her cousin had given her months ago and she had completely forgotten about. 

“Well, we think the light from the sun is white but really it is every colour combined. Now each colour has different sized waves, a bit like different radio stations and...”

John listened to Sally explain using the glass prism and her desk lamp as teaching aids. He didn’t quite understand everything she said and he posed question here and then to clarify. It was interesting though and he didn’t know why Sherlock had said it was such a boring question, it was fascinating.

Sherlock again refrained from rolling his eyes as John nattered on and on about what he and Sally had done and that refraction was cool, showing all the pretty colours white light contained. 

They were heading over to Barts to visit Molly...well to visit the labs but Molly would let them in. 

Apparently Lestrade needed more proof that it was the baker which Sherlock scoffed at. They had the coffee brand what more did they need?!

While the police were probably bungling up his deductions Sherlock had decided to do something actually worthwhile with his time: check what bruise patterns a 5 millimetre diamond could cause on a freshly dead corpses neck, there was a diamond on the wife’s ring but Sherlock wasn’t sure if she had done it or it was the mark from the child’s toy train.

John would distract Molly from trying to make tedious conversation with him and Molly would distract John. Perfect.

“Molly?” John asked curiously as Molly scraped a skin sample off of a cadaver’s foot.

“Yes, John?” Molly asked absently as she noted down her findings.

“How many bones does the body have?” John asked curiously. Molly smiled.

“Well technically it depends on how you count it and how old the person is but we generally say an adult has...”

Sherlock extracted John from Molly’s lecture with more than a little resistance from the young boy who seemed to want to spend longer in Molly’s presence for some reason.

Sherlock tuned out John’s chatter as they again made their way to Scotland Yard. Honestly, did the police need him to hold their hands while they search for leads? Why they didn’t just listen to him to begin with was beyond Sherlock. Well, he knew they had to use certain procedures and bow down to their superiors but still.

John had remarked more than once that Sherlock would have been an awful policeman. He would have solved cases with ease and quickly but the paperwork would never be done, the police department sued when Sherlock insulted everyone and Sherlock would only randomly report for work, the rest of the time spent so caught up in his experiments that he forgot which day it was. Sherlock resented the implication that he would be a worse policeman than Donovan but he had reluctantly agreed with John on his other points.

Sherlock absently shooed John over to Donovan once more as he strode swiftly through the various offices searching for Lestrade.

John huffed when he realised Sally wasn’t in her room and he went looking for someone else he knew.

Sherlock scowled as he and John exited Scotland Yard. He had spent ten minutes looking for John only to find the boy chatting with Anderson of all people! And the police were being stupid...again.

Sherlock glanced at his watch frowning in annoyance. It was nearly time for John’s dinner. Angelo didn’t do take away but he made an exception for Sherlock, John wouldn’t mind Italian for the fifth night in a row surely.

John would also need watering. 

Donovan had given John a drink when they went to Scotland Yard the first time but that was at least three hours ago and when he had researched it he learnt that children needed water frequently.

“Hello dears.” Mrs Hudson greeted them as they entered the flat, John was being surprisingly quiet and Sherlock looked down to make doubly sure he was still there.

“Hi!” John greeted jolting out of his thoughts with a wide grin. Mrs Hudson tended to mother John now in nearly exactly the same way she mothered him as an adult and John adored it the same now as he had as an adult.

“Shall I pop on some dinner for you? I think I still have some chicken in breadcrumbs for you dear.” Mrs Hudson offered already bustling off.

Sherlock divested himself of his coat and gloves eyeing John’s pink hands. He swore he had brought the child gloves recently, where on earth had John put them now? He handed John a glass of milk and tided away the remnants of his experiments. He had only recently begun actually tidying away things, he didn’t exactly want John to poison himself by accident. John as an adult knew what was likely to be dangerous and what wasn’t but children were remarkably obtuse at times.

John amused himself until Mrs Hudson announced she had brought dinner for them and that you’d better eat young man. (She wasn’t directing that stern comment to John.)

Sherlock eyed the food disinterestedly but since he wasn’t on a case he didn’t particularly mind refuelling. 

Mrs Hudson poured John some of that horrid sickly squash, the orange sticky stuff before leaving them to their meal with the usual ‘not your house keeper’.

Sherlock tapped away on his phone.

“John put those peas back on your plate.” Sherlock admonished not taking his eyes off the small screen in front of him. John jumped peas spilling off his fork and onto the floor when he realised he had been caught.

Sherlock looked up with a raised eyebrow, his expression saying something along the lines of ‘you’ll have to do better than that’. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the deceptively innocent boy across the table from him.

“John...how on earth did you get peas up there?!” Sherlock queried incredulously, eyeing the peas balanced on the kitchen light.

John quietly ate the rest of his dinner.

 

xxx

 

“Are you going to get him a tutor or something?” Lestrade asked Sherlock curiously while John scampered about in the background playing with his plastic jet fighter.

Sherlock frowned.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Sherlock asked as though mentally revaluating Greg’s mental acumen once again. Greg rolled his eyes.

“Well the kid’ll need something to do; he can’t just spend all his time playing around.” 

“There would be little point getting John a tutor, he remembers things children his age are taught and will remember things he learnt at school as he ages.” Sherlock stated dismissively. 

“Greg! Greg! Daniel told me how aeroplanes fly an’ how they don’t just fall cause of gravity! An’ did you know that most adults have 206 bones in their body, Molly explained that depending on how you count...and that you start off with more bones but when you get to adult age you have 206. Did you know the sky is blue ‘cause of refraction and that sunlight is every colour merged together? I would have thought it would be brown like when I mix up all my paints but Sally says it works differently with light. An’ did you know that worms are nec-cess-cess-ary for spreading the nutt-rents around the soil?” John babbled on about what he had learnt the other day.

Greg grinned once he had puzzled out John’s fast paced one sided conversation.

“Don’t worry. It seems like he’s got a bunch of teachers ready when he has questions.” Greg grinned before John dragged him into explaining why clown fishes were called clown fishes.


	13. Chapter 13

Have seen all three of series three BBC Sherlock...Wow...I love Mary Watson.

Pretend there is an interlude when Sherlock returns and then series three second episode and third episode...and ignore Mary Morstan... This is definitely an AU timeline wise. 

Again, going to say if anyone has any prompts for this fic then please share...my muse is more than lacking.

Apologies for the gaps in updating. I have no excuse and I will not promise that updates will be speedier in the future but I will try not to wait so long before the next update.

Disclaimer.

Cooking in the kitchen and tracked flour footprints prompts from 1butterfly_grl1.

 

xxx

 

(June/July John is 8.)

Chapter 13.

 

xxx

 

“Sherlock?” John tried for the fiftieth time, (okay, maybe it was more like the fifth time but still!) to get Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock had disappeared into his mind Palace a couple of hours ago and John was well and truly bored.

He couldn’t watch telly because Sherlock had shot the TV set a few days ago. Mrs Hudson had never sounded so scary to John, she had yelled at Sherlock for hours and gotten even more annoyed with him after he apologised for killing the television.

Apparently Mrs Hudson had been more worried about John getting his hands on the gun (that was his! According to Sherlock anyway.) than the poor dead TV. 

John wanted to give it a funeral but Sherlock refused and even Mrs Hudson didn’t want to help.

Then Mycroft had shown up and said something about not being able to cover it up if John died in Sherlock’s care from playing with dangerous ‘toys’. John had tuned out the bickering after his name was mentioned.

At least Mycroft didn’t use the mummy threat again. Sherlock had sulked for days after the last time.

John poked Sherlock and sighed when he got no reaction bar a blink of unresponsive eyes.

He couldn’t read a book because the only books in the flat was the Oxford Dictionary and a book on bees of all things. John’s books (Molly and Mrs Hudson had both brought him a couple of funny books that Sherlock, predictably, sneered at stating they were too childish, John loved them. Especially the ones about the boy wizard with the scar.) were unreadable since the ‘Acid Incident’.

Capitols necessary.

The flat had been uninhabitable for days and Sherlock had been told off for the dangerous ‘fooms’ that seeped through to the other flats.

According to Sherlock he had needed to know how fast a certain type of acid coated children’s books burned after four days exposure of rain and more than a little mud.

John had enjoyed the pretty fire that was green and purple.

He was less pleased at the destruction of his books and had refused to speak to Sherlock until he replaced them. Sherlock had told him that he was being childish but Greg had told him to keep at the pout.

They hadn’t visited Scotland Yard since.

John clapped right in front of Sherlock’s nose. Still no reaction. 

John paced in a circle looking at Sherlock with a considering expression all the while. What would Sherlock do?

John grinned at the thought. Sherlock was even more of a child than he was. Sherlock said he never ever wanted to grow up. John disagreed. Adults got all the fun. They could go to the park whenever they wanted!

John wandered into the kitchen casting more than one furtive glance Sherlock’s way as he sidled into the cooking area.

John carefully placed the few kitchen food items he had found (they didn’t really stock anything but dry cereal-nearly out of date- and some rice, oddly enough there was also some flour, if John was hungry he had to pester Mrs Hudson) just inside the door, hidden from view from the living room area.

Just to make sure Sherlock was in his mind Palace and not pretending just to catch him at unawares John flicked Sherlock on the nose.

Not even a blink this time.

John grinned widely.

 

xxx

 

Contrary to his brother’s belief, Mycroft did not in fact constantly watch the security footage of him and John, if there was a problem he was alerted by a member of his personal staff who did the actual tedious job of watching John and Sherlock round the clock.

He wouldn’t do something so menial with his time, matters of state were far too important to ignore in favour of such a boring task.

He had three separate people delegated to Sherlock Watching (capitols necessary), usually people who had offended Mycroft’s sensibilities or said/done something stupid, he made sure the people didn’t know that more than one person watched Sherlock just in case one of them was compromised in any way.

There were one or two people in the world Mycroft was...wary of. And so inevitably Sherlock would one day run into them. He had already met one, James Moriarty was not someone easily dismissed. 

That being the case Mycroft did occasionally (very occasionally if he could help it) make his way to 221B Baker Street to speak face to face with his errant brother.

Sherlock did always find it more difficult to deceive him face to face.

And no matter how odious the conversation and the needless antagonism, Sherlock was his brother first and foremost. Well, he was somewhere on the list at least.

John was one of the few (read: the only one) who could somewhat...control Sherlock, keep him moderately safe in other words and John seemed to stabilise Sherlock in a way that Mycroft had despaired of doing more than twenty years previous.

The man himself was oddly likable for such a man with so many contradictions. The doctor and the soldier, well, that was all Mycroft needed to say really.

The child was unsettlingly endearing. Mycroft had witnessed his affects on other more...normal (stupid) people and he had to conclude there was something slightly charismatic about the doctor-soldier turned child.

It even appeared to affect his brother! But then Sherlock was always the dramatic one.

Mycroft absently reached over to the door knocker (straightening it was an almost subconscious gesture by now) and entered the flat. He raised an eyebrow when some rather odd thud sounds came from upstairs, Sherlock’s flat.

He was on one of his occasional (but worryingly becoming more and more frequent) visits to Baker Street. With Sherlock’s babysitter/carer out of action, so to speak, Mycroft had to be even more vigilante with watching over his brother.

It didn’t matter that Sherlock’s watcher was still there he was not capable of looking after Sherlock as a child. No matter what Sherlock or John insisted.

Mycroft paused near the top step as the thumps suddenly ceased. Cautiously Mycroft approached the silent flat. Sherlock’s flat was never silent.

Not a promising sign.

Mycroft knew Sherlock and John were still inside the flat (they spent little time actually inside the rooms they paid rent for) because he had checked with the surveillance team.

All three of them. Separately.

Well, Anthea (she was incredibly good at making the truth seem a lie, as most people thought she was lying about her name when she was in fact speaking the truth) may have done so for him but that was neither here nor there.

Mycroft edged the door to Sherlock and John’s flat open concealing his distaste (was that mud?) for the grime that littered it. He would have to get another cleaner into the flat. One with a stronger stomach and disposition than the last.

Honestly, he thought the thumbs in the butter dish would have sent someone away, not the toenails. 

Mycroft blinked at the scene that met his eyes. Then he looked to the ceiling. Mycroft was not in the habit of appealing to a higher being (he was the highest in his books...and many other peoples books too if they were smart) but now he felt close.

Was it frustration giving him the urge to just turn around and pretend he never dropped round?

John had...had...

It was barely recognisable as the living room.

And Sherlock was sat in the midst, hands together in praying position, just touching his chin as he gazed sightlessly into the window.

John had frozen at his entry and attempted to make a ‘subtle’ escape.

Mycroft stopped him with a steely look. John swallowed, noisily.

Mycroft surveyed the damage. There was what appeared to be a sculpture made out of corn flakes and rice. Well, it was a sculpture. Now it had been semi trampled into the carpet.

There was also flour everywhere.

Mycroft was not given to hyperboles but this...

How had John managed to get a floury footprint on the ceiling?! 

Mycroft just surveyed the room and his brother’s prone form, mind Palace-Mycroft assumed, with barely concealed exasperation.

The scent of something burning caught his nostrils and Mycroft darted into the kitchen area (with more than a little wariness) far too used to Sherlock’s extremely toxic and dangerous messes to let something be.

Thankfully the only thing that was burning this time was some odd concoction of rice, water and flour in a saucepan and not their mother’s curtains. This time.

Good Lord, was that John’s attempt at cooking? Or was it a rather feeble attempt to extract the poison that naturally occurred in rice when you left it at room temperature?

Mycroft did recall a time when there was that peculiar case of a woman who tried to kill her husband through rice food poisoning. She didn’t leave the Bacillus Cereus bacteria long enough time to gestate thoroughly and thus was unsuccessful at causing her husband much more than the discomfort of mild food poisoning. 

A rather poor attempt at murder but very easy to pass off as an accident.

Given who the husband was Mycroft was rather glad the murder attempt failed.

Mycroft turned off the gas of the cooker and left the burning...gloop sitting where it was. He was certainly not cleaning up. 

Mycroft once again examined the living room where John was now guiltily surveying his socked feet with an intensity that belied the boring nature of such an action.

Slowly Mycroft got out his phone and, not taking his eyes of the remorseful boy, rang up his assistant with the task of finding a competent cleaner to arrive at Baker Street in an hour or two. Along with pest disposal (was that a cockroach?!) and a hazardous waste team. 

Those unlabelled chemicals were certainly not supposed to be within reaching distance of a child.

He put away his phone into his jacket pocket.

“Dr Watson, I do believe a small chat is in order, don’t you? Come along now, we will not be staying in this...cess pit.” Mycroft beckoned John to leave the room.

“My shoes...” John protested when he reached the door. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, why didn’t John mention his lack of footwear before they reached the door and away from John’s room?

“They’re not going to run to you. Go and put them on. And John, do try not to get more flour over your clothes than you have already managed to acquire.” 

Mycroft waited downstairs for the child.

John appeared speedily and nearly ran down the steps before a stern glance sent his way made him slightly more slow and careful of where he was placing his feet.

John eyed him curiously but was mercifully silent as they made their way out of the flat and into a nondescript dark car.

Unfortunately silence the entire ten minute car drive was not to be had and John opened his mouth barely two minutes into the journey.

“Where are we going?” John asked peering out of the window and drawing things in the condensation he created by breathing on the cool glass. Mycroft made a mental note to get the car cleaned. He eyed a flour stain on the upholstery with distaste.

“An indoor play park for children.” Mycroft answered saying the word ‘children’ with a peculiar disgust that both Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to lace that particular word with.

John perked up at that and Mycroft grimaced.

“Will you watch?” John asked curiously.

“No.” Mycroft answered hastily. Not a chance. It was more likely for him to-to indulge in a Friday tradition of Fish and Chips with John than watch him play.

What did John think he did with his time?

What would people say if they heard that some of the nation’s best agents were on child caring duty? It didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be leaked out and the people who worked for Mycroft knew better than to complain.

Mycroft was not going to sit and wait for John to finish playing at the play centre (he suppressed a shudder at the thought), he would send someone to pick John up when he was done and deliver him back to 221B Baker Street, hopefully a clean and semi child friendly area.

Mycroft relished in the silence that came from John repressing his no doubt numerous questions and endless pestering.

John was far less odious than other children but Mycroft still did not relish spending time with other people.

“Why do you carry around that umbrella?” John asked breaking the blissful (to Mycroft at least) silence. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you think?” Mycroft asked dryly indicating the rather miserable weather as a large rain drop splattered against the window next to John’s head. John frowned and Mycroft withheld a sigh, what part of his answer was confusing?

“But Sherlock says you have a secret stash of chocolate in it. I didn’t really believe him.” John confided with a serious look. Mycroft blinked. Really, was that the best his brother could come up with?

“And then when I asked Greg he says you have some secret spy stuff contained in it like a GPS chip and something that kills listening devices dead. An’ Molly said that...”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, yet again, as John listed off the various people and their theories of what his umbrella actually contained.

He decided to ignore the many grammatical inaccuracies John displayed in his sentences. Really, ‘killed them dead’ was just one example of the truly horrendous things that came out of the child’s mouth.

Mycroft managed to get away without contributing to the conversation (and thus letting his mind dwell instead on more important matters) as John continued his one sided speech.

The car parked outside of one of those children’s indoor climbing things. Mycroft supposed it might hold John’s attention for a couple of hours. There did seem to be lots of children (lots of noise) and enough of a climbing maze to entertain someone like John who enjoyed legwork and lots of it.

Mycroft didn’t bother accompanying John inside the building. He instead gave instructions for the agent who took John inside not to let the child out of their sight until Anthea picked him up.

Mycroft left for a meeting with the prime minister satisfied that his familial duty was done for...the next couple of weeks at least, so long as there wasn’t a national disaster or Sherlock being Sherlock...

Mycroft wasn’t crossing his fingers.

 

xxx

 

“...I asked for a pen. And why did you go to Mrs Hudson when there was a perfectly...” Sherlock trailed off when he realised he was speaking to thin air and that the sun had risen considerably since the beginning of his sentence.

In fact it was setting.

Ah. He must have retreated into his mind Palace to contemplate the criminal that was giving Lestrade so much grief recently.

A child snatcher. The Police were in a mess seeing as the public was eating them alive for not yet having apprehended the perpetrator. Or recovering all of the children.

They were clever, Sherlock granted them that, but it had been a simple deduction in the end.

He looked around when he realised John was nowhere near and from the sounds of it wasn’t even in the flat. Perhaps he was with Mrs Hudson? No, she was visiting Mrs Turner, next door, for tea and a chat.

Sherlock eyed the unusually clean flat and he flicked a small amount of flour off of his jacket.

Not a moment later Sherlock heard the front door slam open and the sound of small feet pounding up the stairs in a fast pace.

John practically bounced into the room and beaming smile on his face. Sherlock eyed his flushed face and tired but happy eyes.

“Sherlock the climbing play ground was awesome! I climbed over the netting and then one of the people blew a whistle at me and told me not to do that. I waited until their back was turned and did it again. It was great! Can you take me there again soon? Please?” John practically gushed.

“Oh! And I asked Mycroft about his umbrella. He didn’t deny anything! So maybe you were all right and it has everything inside. Maybe it’s like Mary Poppins umbrella and Mycroft flies into his meetings.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. He still couldn’t believe John actually swallowed his story of Mycroft hiding chocolate inside of it.

“Why is there a footprint on the ceiling?” Sherlock asked quizzically.

“Anyway the place Mycroft took me to was great! Mycroft is awesome.” John exclaimed brightly, changing the subject with little finesse.

Really, did John actually believe such a feeble attempt to distract him woul-What?! Mycroft awesome?!

“Did the play centre have a crime or mystery that needed solving?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, no but-”

“Then it was clearly not worth your time.” Sherlock sniffed. John pouted.

“Take that ridiculous expression off of your face.” Sherlock chided then froze a look of abject horror on his face. John’s facial features morphed into one of concern.

“What’s wrong?” John asked worriedly. Sherlock grimaced.

“I sounded just like my mother.” Sherlock muttered still horrified as he sank into the chair.

John gave up getting a response from him an hour in and just went down to Mrs Hudson’s for dinner.


End file.
